


Bow Down

by WackyGoofball



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Divergence from season 5 onward - to see where this goes, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, For JB Appreciation Week, What if Brienne had not found Sansa...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 71,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/pseuds/WackyGoofball
Summary: What if Brienne had not gotten to Sansa in time?What if Jaime had not gotten the information he received in King's Landing?What if the Blackfish is no longer the man he once was? And what if Jaime and Brienne are to meet under different circumstances? Read to find out! ;)





	1. Honor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SendARaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SendARaven/gifts).



> Hello everyone! Thanks for looking into this story! I hope you're enjoying JB Week 2016 as much as I do! ♥♥♥
> 
> To send this ahead another time: I changed some early premises of season 6 to have Brienne and Jaime by Riverrun at different times, and under different circumstances. Some things may stay *similar*, some things will be completely different. It's a headcanon based on some predictions I had before the new season aired. So I decided to make it a fanfic. 
> 
> The Blackfish will definitely be different from what we've seen on the show, so he is OOC in that regard, though I hope to make clear that I here play on the idea that he grew truly bitter after everything he cared for and loved was taken away from him, to the point that he is even willing... to take more drastic measurments. 
> 
> Each chapter is supposed to fulfill one part of the JB Appreciation Week Challenge, or so is the plan *nervously sweating*. I hope this works out. If not... well, I tried. ;)
> 
> SendARaven was so very kind to upgrade my fic with some very helpful and much needed beta'ing. Thanks dear.
> 
> I gift this to SendARaven, who's always so preciously kind and inspirational, especially for my Shredding Project, an obviously this fanfic. ♥
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it. 
> 
> Much love!!! ♥♥♥

“M’lady?”

Brienne whips her head around as she sees Podrick standing in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. She really ought to pay better attention. She let her guard slip right there – _again_. And as it appears, that is just what will be the case for the rest of her life.

Letting her guard done.

Always one step behind.

There is nothing more hateful than failing to protect the ones you love.

And realizing that you are apparently incapable of it.

“Yes?” Brienne asks, her voice almost not audible, barely brushing over the wet stones of the walls and floor.

“I was ordered to ask you to come to the great hall presently,” Pod tells her, biting his lower lip. Brienne gets up from her bed, straightening out her clothes, sucking in a deep breath.

Maybe she never should have left the North in the first place.

Maybe she simply should have stayed there.

“Are you alright, m’lady?” Podrick asks with a grimace.

“Of course, Pod,” Brienne replies, though both know it a lie. She glances over to the table upon which she laid Oathkeeper, and for a moment, she feels so very tempted to fasten the belt around her waist that her fingers tingle, but Brienne resists the urge, presses her arms to her sides, and then follows Podrick, leaving Oathkeeper in the light. Where it should be.

_He’s given it to me to protect his honor. And what has become of that?_

_What have I done to that?_

_Just what have I done?_

They make it to the great hall and Brienne feels about as naked as she had felt when Locke and his men took her armor.

“My lord,” Brienne greets the gray-haired man, bowing to him as she approaches. “You have called for me.”

“Yes. I have some matters to discuss with you.”

“As it pleases you, Lord Brynden.”

* * *

Jaime glances down on the vast and thick green grass fields, cut through by the waters of the rivers as he keeps his horse in place.

 _The last time I was here, I was in chains_ , he thinks to himself with a wry smile dying on his lips.

The Lannister armor still feels heavy on his shoulders, as though it didn’t fit him, while Jaime knows as a matter of fact it does. After all, they took his measurements before he left King’s Landing. But now? It feels like the shoulder pads are too heavy, and the breastplate leaves too little space for him to suck in the damp air that tastes of grass and murky water.

No longer a man of the Kingsguard, released from his duties by his own son who’d never know that he is indeed his father.

Never a man of honor.

Kingslayer. Always the Kingslayer.

Just what does that make him _now_? Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock?

Or will “Kingslayer” always be the only thing he’ll ever be, the one mark he will always bear alongside his missing hand? Is that the level he will never rise above again? Is that the one name to remain at the end of the page in the White Book? Because it very well seems like it now, that this book is closed for him, that his story is finished, the last word written, the ink dried.

_“Thereafter known as the Kingslayer.”_

His father would be pleased, _that’s_ for sure, but is he really a Lannister lord now? _The_ Lannister lord? Because no matter that he is clad in a black leather cloak underneath hammer-beaten, red steel, Jaime doesn’t feel like his father, doesn't even feel like he did back when he last wore a Lannister armor, doesn’t feel like… _anything_.

Everything is dull, numb, drifting in and out of him like the mist hanging low over the dew-dipped blades of grass, which don’t move in the strong breeze.

Truth be told, Jaime had long since resigned himself to the circumstance of never inheriting the Rock. He had chosen so himself, and when he offered to take his father's place as heir to spare Tyrion the death penalty, for all the good it’s done him and his house, it didn’t come about either. It was something Jaime knew he would never call his own. A while he didn’t want, a while he didn’t care, a while he thought it was too late, and other whiles he forgot about it altogether.

But now it seems to be the case, for whatever twist of fate it may be. Perhaps Tywin Lannister is much more powerful after all, and he was affecting the happenings here on Earth even in his death, smiling behind folded hands, sitting in his study. Though then again, that’s likely too much of a romantic fantasy, Jaime reminds himself. After what happened in Dorne, or King’s Landing for the matter, the Gods are dead or do not care. 

But it remains true, no matter how he twists or turns it. He wears Lannister armor again, and he is supposed to be a Lannister again. The soiled White likely lies in the armories of the Red Keep, if they hadn’t decided to burn it yet.

And truly, if that is the case, then Jaime has no idea just what he is. Who he is.

A part of him wanted to believe again, in serving that one oath of the Kingsguard that should matter for as long as it’s not a Mad King. A part of him wanted to "protect the King", his son who'd never know that he is his father. Jaime thought that this would be what he _could_ do. He thought that while Brienne chased Sansa, he might fix things for his own family. He thought that after Myrcella…

“Hey, your army’s riding off without you,” Bronn’s voice rings out, snapping Jaime out of his thoughts. Jaime whips his head around to the other man, giving his horse the spurs at once, the thick grass underneath lying flat due to the weight of the dew wearing it down.

“You know it leaves a bad impression not to ride into a siege’s camp first, as the commander, right?” Bronn tells him.

“I am aware of that circumstance, thank you.”

“You tell me again why I am bound to tag along?” Bronn wrinkles his nose, looking around.

“Because I pay you to keep my counsel for the siege,” Jaime tells him simply. “And I pay you better than I would normally pay a man who is nothing but complaining.”

“At some point I don’t care about the gold you Lannisters seem to shit. I want castle and wife and a boring death. I told you often enough.”

“And you shall have it all,” Jaime rolls his eyes. “You _do_ realize the urgency of this mission, though? And that, perchance, that is something keeping me more preoccupied than your matchmaking?”

“I don’t see the urgency at all, but what do I care? I am a sellsword who does what he is told,” Bronn shrugs. “I don’t care for politics for as long as the payment’s right, but personally? I don't see the urgency of trading castles when the lord laying siege’s got one to live in.”

“If it helps to cheer you up, they have quite a few taverns and other establishments around there that may help soothe some of your deep-felt heartache,” Jaime huffs, though normally, he’d likely tend to agree with Bronn. Not that he’d ever let him know. Bronn’s too full of himself anyways. But Jaime knows the urgency doesn’t flow from the task itself. He could give less than a damn on Walder Frey.

But if the King calls, if the House calls… you have to answer.

You have to do that one job.

You have to honor that one responsibility.

That one vow.

_After all the time you did not._

“I expect you to cover my expenses,” Bronn grins at him.

“How could it be any other way?” Jaime rolls his eyes. “And if you are that eager to get wed and settle down, I am sure our allies, the Freys, would be happy to offer a bride?”

“Oh Seven Hells no.”

“What? Now we are getting picky?” Jaime teases. “Then your request can’t be that urgent, can it?”

“Let’s just say that I don’t want a father in law who’s handing out the kinds of wedding gifts the Starks got,” Bronn replies. “I think I’ll pass.”

“A good point, I suppose,” Jaime grimaces, contemplating.

A too true point indeed. As much as Bronn annoys him… it annoys Jaime even more when that sellsword ends up saying the right things at the wrong times. No wonder Tyrion enjoyed his company so much. But Jaime knows by now that truths are rarely comforting, and that it should make no difference just when you get truth handed to you. So maybe he really just has to get used to that again.

“So you keep that in mind when you pay me back with what I want of you,” Bronn tells him.

“Of course. No backstabbers,” Jaime snorts. “As the Kingslayer, I should have a keen eye for those people.”

“No backstabbers alright,” Bronn agrees before he rides away, leaving Jaime to his thoughts again, which are drifting away even faster than the waters of the river are carried away by the current.

 _Where is the honor in that_ , he wonders. _Where is the honor in any of this?_

He _knows_ it wrong that Riverrun is supposed to go to the Freys. Yet, here he is, meant to support Walder in _just_ that campaign, because of the Lannister-Frey Alliance, forged between that old lecher and his own Father, long since no longer under the living, and now apparently renewed by royal decree.

As though the Red Wedding was not bad enough in itself, for all he’s heard of it by now.

Jaime just hopes that he can negotiate the terms fast, and without greater bloodshed. Too much blood gets spilled over stretches of land. Too much blood is spilled in general.

Too much blood dripped down young girl’s faces as the life fled from their frail bodies already, only because of family feuds, bad blood, and revenge.

_Just where does all of this end?_

Jaime doesn't care for revenge for just that reason. Revenge keeps the bad blood boiling and boiling and boiling until nothing but ashes remain. It never ends. It only starts over, and hits those who have nothing to do with it.

He’d always take a proper sword fight between two men over wars or sieges. Well, considering the lack of his sword hand, that may prove to be rather difficult these days, but no matter what, Jaime would still rather do _that_ than letting others fight for him, or rather, fight in his name over some castle or in the name of a blood feud. No matter how much he indeed enjoys to be back in a position of command where he can think of tactics instead of the plots and lies that he left back in King’s Landing, for good.

Just like he hopes that he will finally succeed in something. After Myrcella, after failing in King’s Landing all over… He has to get this one thing right, he has to fix this one thing.

He cannot afford to fail again.

And if that means he has to fit an armor that doesn’t seem to fit him, then so he has to grow to fill out those empty spaces.

_Right?_

* * *

“… W, what?”

Brienne can do nothing but stare at the Blackfish, her eyes almost falling out of their sockets.

“News reached us that Lannister armies are marching on Riverrun,” Brynden Tully repeats, his expression sour. “To support the Freys.”

_Lannister armies? What?_

Brienne’s mind races through the explanations, through the reasons she can fathom right at this moment. Her eyes drift back to the seasoned knight, who’s opening his mouth to speak again after a dramatic pause, “Led by the Kingslayer himself.”

_Jaime._

The air catches in Brienne’s throat, almost strangling her.

“… And… that is so for certain or is it just hearsay, m’lord?” Brienne asks, forcing the words out of her aching lungs.

_I promised him. And now he is on the way here? Isn’t it enough that I failed?_

“Our scouts confirmed to have spotted the Kingslayer leading the armies. That golden hand is hard to miss.”

“… Well, we don’t know his intentions, so…,” Brienne means to say, but the Blackfish is quick enough to interrupt her, “ _We don’t know his intentions_? Woman, don’t be so foolish. You are just making yourself sound ridiculous. You don’t believe that he comes here, with his big army, to support my family, do you? You _are_ of aware what his House did to mine, and who sided with who against my family during the Red Wedding. So don’t act as though we didn’t know whose camp they’ll ride into.”

“Of course I am aware of that, it’s just…,” Brienne means to say, but again, he cuts her off, “It’s just _what_?”

“… Well, perhaps you two can negotiate,” Brienne says slowly. “After the Freys won’t, maybe he was sent to do just that in their stead.”

Shortly after she arrived in Riverrun, the Freys laid siege to the castle – and since then proved at any step the dishonor seemingly running deep in their flesh. They wouldn’t negotiate or offer alternatives. Instead, threats were exchanged, _horrible_ threats indeed, and with every action of the Freys, the Blackfish’s heart seemed to grow harder and more porous to the point that it seemingly takes just one more step to make it burst along the cracks.

_But if Jaime is on the way here, then… Jaime wouldn’t ever attack the castle if there was another way. He wouldn’t…_

Brienne is interrupted by the Blackfish laughing out loud.

“ _Negotiate_? M’lady, this is a siege, a war in small, not a harvest feast,” Brynden scolds her, and Brienne has to suck the inside of her cheek to not to lose her temper right there. As though she wasn’t aware of that.

But she cannot. She must not. Not after what she’s done, or rather, failed to do.

“This is the son of the man who’s killed almost all of my kin. The Kingslayer. You tell me again how we two are supposed to _negotiate_? Backstabbers all around me? Do you want me to let a backstabber have my back? Or do you think he will?”

“Ser Jaime is not his father,” Brienne says. “He didn’t take part in the plotting of the Red Wedding. That much I can say for certain.”

“ _Yes_ , because you were with him, after my niece’s released and given him into your… _care_. I am well aware of that circumstance, m’lady,” the Blackfish says, looking at her with a grimace Brienne fails to read. Mistrust? Bitterness? She can’t tell. It’s all like cracks across his face, growing deeper and darker with every word of venom spilling out of his mouth.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           “So you see…”

“I didn’t have you come here to sing sweet songs about the Kingslayer’s heroic acts to me,” Brynden warns her, with an expression she can read for certain this time. Loathing.

“There _is_ honor in him. I owe him my life, many times. And as I told you, it was Ser Jaime who has sent me out to find Lady Sansa…,” Brienne means to insist another time, but the Blackfish interrupts her harshly, “I don’t want to hear another word on that matter. You made a promise to me upon entering Riverrun, do not forget, after you broke another one not long ago.”

“Of course not. I mean to keep my oaths,” Brienne tries another time, internally shuddering at herself.

What has become of her? Shuddering at a man who is lost in grief over his loved ones, sitting in a castle under siege that feels more like a crypt than a house holding protection?

“Good. If that’s so, now would be the time to prove it.”

“As it pleases you, m’lord, I…”

“Once the Kingslayer gets here, you will give him a message from me. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble entering the Lannister camps. I suppose you are _well known_ amongst them anyway.”

“A message?” Brienne asks, letting the implications wash over her. Lord Brynden keeps dropping them every now and then, but Brienne knows better than to pick them up, instead she lets the pebbles roll past her feet until they drop somewhere behind her. She knows that he is deep in grief, and sometimes that makes people say things they wouldn’t otherwise.

And sometimes, long-held grief will make you do things that you wouldn’t do otherwise either, had you known the consequences of that choice beforehand.

“You’d vouch for him, would you not?”

“I… I strongly advise you to seek parley with him once he arrives, yes,” Brienne replies, slowly, selecting her words with utmost caution. “He will listen to you. You _can_ negotiate with him, you can talk to him. You can be certain of that.”

“Don’t you mean that _you_ can?”

“What?” Brienne blinks at him.

“Woman, don’t be fooled by my gray hairs. My eyes are as sharp as they were back during my youth. Neither am I to be taken for an old fool whose head got lost in wine and sword fight. I know a Lannister sword when I see it dangling around the waist of the woman who’s approached me to take her into my family’s service for the oath unfulfilled to my niece,” Brynden hisses at her. “But so be it. You think you know the Kingslayer better than we all do. Well, now’s your time to prove it to us. Bring him that message – and convince him of it, then I am more than ready to welcome him into Riverrun to _negotiate_ those very terms.”

He holds out a parchment to her. Brienne takes it from him, mustering as much self-control as she can not to let her hands shake as she takes the slip of paper from him.

“What if I do not succeed?” she asks, not looking at him.

“Then… we will do anything within our powers to make certain of it that it happens after all.”

“But… we all know that…,” Brienne means to say, but the Blackfish cuts her off again, “I didn’t have you here to be my counsellor, m’lady. You’ll bring him that message and convince him of the content. You trust this man’s honor? Then now is your chance to prove it that he is deserving of your trust. If he has the honor you see underneath a lion’s skin.”

Brienne doesn’t say anything in reply, trying her best to ignore the side glances she knows she is getting from young Podrick. She bows slightly.

_Just where is the honor in that?_

“As you will, m’lord.”

“You may be dismissed. We’ll let you know once time has come that the Kingslayer decides to join the ranks.”

Brienne nods stiffly before exiting the great hall. Podrick speeds up to catch up to her, “M’lady? What will you…?”

“Not here,” Brienne tells him. Pod bites his lower lip, but understands. The two walk back to her chamber.

“What will you do now, m’lady?” Podrick asks.

“I will… talk to Ser Jaime, as it appears, to negotiate the terms of the siege,” Brienne replies, keeping her voice leveled.

“But… what of Lady Sansa and…?”

“Leave that to me,” Brienne cuts him off.

_It’s my responsibility._

_My oath broken._

_Neglected._

_Left in bloody snow._

“Would you be so kind to leave me alone for a while?” Brienne asks, not looking at Podrick.

“Of course, m’lady.”

“Thank you.”

Pod opens the heavy wooden door and closes it once he is outside. Brienne lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding this whole time. She steps over to the small table upon which Oathkeeper lies, shimmering in the dim sunlight peeking through the thick clouds drifting over a gray sky.

_He’s given it to me to defend Ned Stark’s daughters._

_And I promised him that I would find Lady Sansa, for Lady Catelyn and for him._

_For his honor._

She extends her hand to touch the golden lion pommel, but short before she can touch the cold metal, she pulls away with a small hiss.

_Just where is the honor in any of this?_


	2. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne reunite... not the way either one probably pictured. 
> 
> News are delivered. Truths are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around, and the lovely kudos and comments. 
> 
> Special thanks to SendARaven for beta'ing my rambling. *salutes*
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter - it's longer than the first one, but that's one of the few ways I have to fit this into the seven-day-schedule I hope to keep up for JB Week. Keep the fingers crossed for me, LOL. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Jaime glances over the maps laid out on his table in his tent, fuming. Not only are the Freys about as lovely in character as they are mindful of the guest right of a wedding, but they are also blatant _idiots_. At some point Jaime asks himself how they ever succeeded in much of anything. They didn’t even know how to fix the trenches for a proper siege. Had the Lannister armies come to take them down, they could have “fucked” them “in the ass”, as Bronn pointed out to Lothar and Black Walder. Well, now Bronn’s seeing to that, so this should work better from now on, even though Bronn was very much complaining about the matter.

But still, it’s no use. Upon arrival, Jaime had to look at a joke of a siege, the worst siege ever laid to a castle, perchance, and that surely means something, looking back at the records of Westerosi history, wherein one can find some many sieges that didn’t go down well.

Is that really what he came here for? To babysit the Freys and hold their hand through the siege?

Seven Hells, no matter what, he is an anointed knight, he fought in battles before, but this is madness mingled with incompetence.

It’s small wonder that Brynden Tully didn’t give up the castle yet. That might be one of those rare occasions where the one being sieged wins because the other party just doesn’t know what it is doing.

“Ser Jaime?”

He whips his head around to see a young lad, a servant boy about Tommen’s age, maybe a bit older, peek his head through the folds of the tent.

“What is it?” he asks, trying his best to masquerade his annoyance.

“Uhm, someone’s just ridden into the camps, coming from Riverrun, to demand words with you, m’lord,” the boy tells him.

“The Blackfish?” Jaime frowns.

That would be a surprise. Jaime didn’t dare believe the old man would leave the castle to negotiate the terms, and he still doubts it. It would already be a miracle to have the man lowering the bridge and have parley with Jaime by the gates.

“No, a lady, Ser.”

“Now, that’s new. As far as I was concerned, he didn’t have a wife to act as a voice of reason in his stead,” Jaime grimaces.

“She’s said her name’s, ugh… what was it?” the boy replies, tapping his index finger against his chin, trying to think of the name that seems to have escaped him.

Jaime rolls his eyes. Needless to mention that the boy, though he is quite charming, is from the Frey camps.

“Taft? Trat? Something of Tar…”

“The first name?” Jaime exhales. “Or am I supposed to make an educated guess?”

“Breh… Brie… Brynn or so?”

Jaime’s eyes open wide at once.

“Brienne of Tarth, is that it?”

“That’s the one,” the lad agrees happily. Jaime can’t help but leave his mouth wide open for a moment.

_Brienne._

The name takes his breath away at once.

The one name he did not expect to hear while here.

What is Brienne doing here in Riverrun, though?

“M’lord? What of her? Do I send her away, or…?”

“No, no! Bring her to me, _now_ ,” Jaime replies, swallowing thickly. “And be quick about it.”

“As it pleases you, m’lord,” the lad taps his hand against his head awkwardly before running off again.

As it seems, the world has gone insane in the face of nearing Winter after all.

And then the flap of the tent moves again, and there she stands, tall as ever, in the armor he’s given her, though it bears more than one scratch, one sleeve is torn, that much he can see. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, draining almost all color out of her lips. Just the way he remembers her from when she left King’s Landing.

Just that she looks totally different at the same time, something he can’t put his finger on, though. Perhaps it’s nervousness, perhaps it’s shock, he cannot tell.

“Brienne.”

“Ser Jaime.”

The question of “why are you here?” hangs in the air as though it was attached to invisible strings.

And for the smallest of moments, for the blink of an eye, Jaime dares to believe that at last, _at last_ , some good news will reach his ears. News not of the deaths of young girls who never got the chance to live their lives to the fullest, or a Faith Militant rising, something to confirm that things can go the way they were planned. Maybe he can keep at least those few vows he shares with Brienne, that something will finally change for good now.

But then he blinks again, and he sees the distress in her features. And Jaime had travelled with that woman long enough to know _just_ that expression, to know that it means no good.

“What… brings you to Riverrun… or rather, inside it?” Jaime asks.

Brienne opens her mouth to reply something, but then finds herself unable to.

It is one thing to mentally brace herself for confronting Jaime, but quite another to be face to face with him. To look him in the eye.

“What… happened?” he asks at last. Brienne’s eyes flicker at his for a moment, but then drift to the ground again, like a scared blue deer shying away at the smallest of sounds.

“You gave me a task when I left King’s Landing,” she beings slowly, her mouth barely moving as she speaks.

“I know that, but…” Jaime grimaces.

“I failed,” she says in a voice so soft, so small, so fragile, as though it was made of porcelain.

_I failed my duty, I failed…_

Jaime blinks repeatedly, the words, however silent, slapping against him like the winds of a strong storm.

“You _what_?”

“Failed,” Brienne repeats, unable to lift her gaze, her head feels so heavy that she cannot even dare to look up at him. She is afraid what his eyes will say in turn.

There, she’s said it. Failed. Failed. _Failed_. And if truth be told, Brienne would rather turn around and leave right at this moment, but she knows she cannot, must not. She has to endure this, she has to suffer through this, for she was the one to fail in her oaths yet again.

_That is what you get for becoming an oathbreaker._

“So you didn’t find Sansa?”

Brienne opens her mouth to reply something, but she cannot. Just why is this so hard?

_Say it already! Say it! Say it!_

“Brienne, you will have to speak, or else I won’t understand,” Jaime says after a longer moment of silence. He knows that Brienne is not what you would coin as being particularly talkative, but this is the kind of muteness that means no good, absolutely no good.

“… Lady Sansa… is… dead.”

“ _Dead_ ,” Jaime repeats, in a futile attempt to make those words reach further into his head by saying them himself, but they don’t travel further than his mouth, they linger in the air that won’t even travel into his lungs, and just turns to acid on his tongue.

Yet another girl that never got to live her life?

How can that be real?

How is that possible?

And just how cruel are the Gods for letting such things happen?

“She fell off the wall of Winterfell… or _jumped_ , I do not know. I heard Bolton soldiers talk about the matter, standing close by where it happened. There was frozen blood… They said the girl’s body was so beyond unrecognizable from the impact that it was almost impossible to tell who she was, until they knew who was gone… and I wasn’t there to prevent it.”

_I had a duty, I had a mission and I failed. I failed. Failed. **Failed**! _

At some point Jaime doesn’t know if he is supposed to shed a tear or laugh. To think that they are back in the same situation all over – failing to protect young girls they were meant to keep safe? Just why do they always seem to fall into the same holes of no return?

“… Well, if she… took her life, you couldn’t have done much, Brienne, it’s…,” Jaime tries to offer a word of solace, but she just shakes her head. “The problem was that I wasn’t there. I _could_ have prevented it. All of it. I could have prevented it, if only I had been… if only…”

_If only…_

For a moment, Jaime feels his ghost hand itching to rest on her shoulder to offer a small comfort, but he resists the urge.

What comfort would it be anyway?

“See, sometimes we can’t help these things… I recently lost my niece, and while I thought I had her… she still died, so…,” Jaime stammers, in a futile attempt to offer comfort when the images of Myrcella’s sweet face with vines of blood all over still haunt him as he lies asleep or wide awake for the matter.

_I failed her. Failed my family. Failed fixing things. Failed. **Failed**!  _

Brienne stares at him, a tremor rising in her throat, shaking her voice even more, “I, I didn’t know… I am… so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he grimaces, meaning to offer a smile he doesn’t have.

They are seemingly both just meant to fail, always.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” Brienne brings out, her voice quivering.

And now this on tops.

Two girls.

Two deaths.

Two lives that should have been, but were not.

“In any case… I had to realize that sometimes you can’t prevent those things from happening, even if you go out in the hope to rescue that person. It’s terrible that Sansa is dead, to say the least, but you shouldn’t blame yourself for it, sometimes it’s…”

“I chose to leave my post,” she speaks up hastily.

_I don't deserve those words of comfort._

“Your post?” Jaime asks. He knows Brienne has a hard time accepting such words, but there is something very unsettling in the way she talks, the way she acts, the way she is right at this moment. He has never seen Brienne like that before, and it makes him feel cold spreading in his entire body, as though a snow storm raged in his guts.

“We had a room that had a good view on the castle, outside the walls of Winterfell… we had someone deliver a message to Lady Sansa, that she shall light a candle in the old tower if she were in trouble. Then I would have ridden in there no matter the costs, however I would have, that is… I would have found a way, I am sure, but…,” Brienne goes on, shaking her head as the images flicker back into her mind. The blood in the snow. The soldiers talking, shrugging, laughing, not caring. All of it.

“ _But_?”

“Stannis Baratheon marched on Winterfell.”

The words tumble to the ground almost soundlessly, rolling right in front of Jaime’s boots. He stares at his feet for a longer while, as the implication of those heavy words unfold on the ground. He tears his gaze up to meet hers as he can’t help but raise his voice, “Please don’t tell me that you killed Stannis Baratheon.”

Brienne bows her head impossibly lower.

“Seven Hells,” Jaime grounds out.

_That can’t be. That simply can’t be._

“Please tell me now that this is just a joke and that you mean to get back at me for the japes I threw at you all the while,” Jaime tries, though he knows it’s useless. She wouldn’t ever do such a thing, but then again, he also thought that she wasn’t capable of this… yet here she stands, a tall woman standing so small that it seems like the entire world rested on her broad shoulders.

“Were you… are you out of your mind?!” Jaime can’t help but curse, oppressing any urge to just take her by the shoulders and shake her now.

Only the Gods know what devils must have possessed her. Or well, maybe just the one devil that calls itself vengeance, or oaths perhaps. Duty to a dead man, the man she can’t help but love even from his grave.

Jaime had believed in this woman, he… he still wants to believe in her, but there she stands and tells him how she gave up any sort of redemption for either one of them, any chance to make good of their oaths, their shared duties, blew them out like that damned candle she’s been waiting for all this time, or so she just said.

How is he supposed to believe even now?

When reality fractures and shatters any future plans?

Again and again and _again_.

“I thought I had time… There was no sign of her in days and weeks. I already feared my message never reached her… it was only… a few hours at best that I was gone,” Brienne replies.

It was only the blink of an eye in which she chose.

And that one moment destroyed everything she worked so hard for, Brienne had to realize.

It cost a young girl her life.

It cost Jaime his honor, his chance of fulfilling their shared vow to Lady Catelyn.

It cost so much, but Brienne didn’t know the price until it appeared before her eyes, right in the flesh.

_This is the debt **I** owe, but will never be able to repay. Even jumping into a bear pit wouldn’t fix that. There is just no way to fix it, no way to pay back, give back.  _

“Why is it that these news haven’t reached out further yet?” Jaime asks, trying to keep his voice leveled so that the anger doesn’t have him punch something in his fury. “One should think that the death of Sansa Stark would cause more of a scandal.”

“I suppose the Boltons didn’t want to let the capital know,” Brienne replies faintly. “I reckon it’s only a matter of time until news will reach further, though. After all, Roose Bolton’s bastard son took her to bride.”

“To bride? That means he’d inherit Winterfell from her… potentially.”

While the heritage rules would beg to differ, Jaime also knows that with inheritance it’s often a matter of who comes first and who has more power to keep it. And at present, the Boltons have a clear advantage over the Northern lords altogether, holding the ancestral home of the main House of the North. And that means the new Lord of Winterfell is Ramsay Snow, now Bolton, until someone takes the castle from him.

The Flayed Man of House Bolton flaps over the walls of Winterfell as a constant reminder of the crimes committed by this clan and Jaime’s own family during the Red Wedding.

It all comes down to that bloody event, again and again.

That one wedding drenched in blood.

“Exactly.”

“Why did you do it?” Jaime asks, his voice barely audible, though it still slaps Brienne right across the face with an intensity that is even worse compared to what she took when fighting the Hound.

_Why did you leave your post?_

_Why did you make the choice against Sansa?_

_Against your precious Lady Catelyn?_

_And for killing Stannis?_

_For your precious dead Renly, for the vow you made to him though it won’t help him even in his grave?_

_Against life._

_For the dead._

_Against… me?_

_Why? Why? **Why**?_

Jaime’s fist clenches into a tight bundle of flesh that feels ablaze. It hurts him just to think those thoughts, one stab is worse than the other. And what is even more of a stab is to see her lifting her gaze slightly so he may catch a flash of blue, and even from that narrow slit of sapphire, he can see the shame, the blame, the anguish, the pain, coupled with what he wouldn’t ever dare say out loud, mingled with unshed tears dancing on her lashes.

“So… after you… learned of her… demise… then what? How are you here?” Jaime asks, his voice slightly quivering from cold anger and even colder shock, leaving his hands shaking, even his phantom hand no more than a single tremor.

“I wanted to… inform _you_ … at first… but then I got to Riverrun on my way back South, and… I heard of Lord Brynden and… I thought I had to confess to him, about what had happened, about what I… let happen. So I decided to go to Riverrun first. You can imagine that Lord Brynden was… less than pleased about the news I had to deliver.”

 _It was like seeing a man turn to stone right before my eyes_ , Brienne remembers. _One moment there was the slightest air of cheer about him, but then I told him, and all color drained from him, all tension left his body, leaving him lax, leaving him empty._

“Obviously. Being told that your grandniece is dead is no pleasant news to receive.”

 _Neither to deliver_ , he means to add, but he is too angry for it right at this moment.

“I tried to explain it to him, but… he didn’t want to understand, he couldn’t understand. A short time later, the Freys laid siege to the castle.”

“Hence you couldn’t leave for King’s Landing,” Jaime concludes.

_Well, that would at least explain how it comes she never made an attempt to leave._

“That, too.”

“What else, then?” Jaime grimaces.

Brienne takes out a parchment from her belt. Jaime looks at the seal for a long moment, recognizing the Tully’s sigil at once.

“You will have to say it,” he demands.

Jaime learned that lesson very painfully. You have to have people say it to you to make it real. You have to hear it from their own lips. How they lied, betrayed, destroyed your own House, the family.

Once you say it, it becomes real, inevitable. You can no longer hide, you can no longer just close your eyes so not to see. Once you hear it, it’s in the world, and all looking away will not undo its presence in reality.

“I offered my service to Lord Brynden, as retribution for the wrong I have done his clan by failing to protect his grandniece,” Brienne admits.

_The only thing I have left, the only thing I can still do, after I failed, failed by choosing my own wishes over my oaths._

“So _that_ is why you are here.”

He snaps the parchment from her trembling hands.

First Brienne delivers such news, and then she tells him that she jumped right to the next oath only to prevent herself from having to be oathless, without duty. Seven Hells, just how much does this woman crave duty?

_Just how much does she want to get away from me? Swearing herself to the Tullys…_

Jaime breaks the wax seal to put the parchment down on the table to read it. With one hand, it’s difficult to hold the parchment unrolled in the air.

“What exactly did you tell him about me?” he asks, not even looking at her.

Now he has to bother about that, too. _Great, just great._

“That you sent me on that mission. I spoke no bad word of you, I swear it,” Brienne replies, her voice slightly shaking.

“Hm, it appears that your words hardly reached him. He lets me know hereby that I still owe his family a debt, for his grandnieces not having been returned, and that if I am not the man without honor everyone takes me for, I’d do best surrendering Riverrun to the Tullys,” Jaime huffs. Brienne purses her lips.

“And you share his sentiment, as it appears,” Jaime goes on, his tone sour.

He thought that she would at least have the decency to have his side on that one matter, knowing that he cannot even if he wanted.

He thought that this one thing would be clear, that this is the one thing they’d agree upon.

“Brienne.” He looks at her sternly. “You are aware that I cannot do that, right?”

“I didn’t write this,” she insists.

_I’d never…_

“But you don’t disagree with it either,” Jaime argues, having none of it.

“This _is_ their ancestral home,” Brienne replies, her voice faint.

“And by royal decree, it was given to the Freys,” Jaime retorts.

“After they slaughtered their family.”

“Exactly,” he snaps.

_Does she think that I am not aware of that? Does she think that I approve of this? Just how little do you know me, Brienne? After all this time…_

Brienne averts her gaze again, and it drives Jaime to the point of despair.

“This is politics, not personal. Don’t get me wrong. I’d rather send all those witless fools of the Frey clan back to where they belong, but… they helped my family. We owe them a debt.”

_I don't wear the family’s armor for the fun of it. I wear it because I am a Lannister, because I have to be a Lannister. I have to do what is best for my family, after everything I did or let happen… or just didn't want to see until I made her say it._

“And I owe the Tullys a debt.”

“And you think I do likewise.” He cocks an eyebrow at her.

“No.” Brienne shakes her head slowly, her eyes even bluer now, and Jaime would like to hate her for it, but cannot, for still having the fire in her eyes that he has lost, left somewhere on the way to Dorne to here.

“Well, that’s what you seem to imply with agreeing to this message,” Jaime argues, tapping his golden hand on the parchment with a loud clink.

“I don’t agree with it.”

“Neither do you disagree with it,” he huffs.

Jaime shakes his head.

To think that after all they have been through together, she’d choose him over the Blackfish anytime and demand of him to surrender Riverrun to what is a rebel to the Crown in a futile attempt to feel better about a vow left unfulfilled… Jaime didn’t think that possible.

“I think Riverrun belongs to the Tullys, yes,” Brienne replies. “But I’d never dare demand of you to surrender it to them. I didn’t know of the content until you broke the seal. I had a feeling, but… it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: I know that you are bound by your oaths to the Crown, as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard…”

Jaime lets out a dry laugh. Brienne tilts her head at him.

“ _Former_ Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” he corrects her. “As it appears, my services as the head of my own House were more required than my sword skills. At least that is the version I tend to go with.”

It’s still better than the version where his son, though he’d never know, wanted him to get lost.

Brienne stares at him with wide eyes.

He is no longer wearing the White Cloak?

Just what happened in the South while she was in the North?

What happened to Jaime while she was gone?

Brienne would love to ask all those questions, but she cannot, must not. It is not up to her to ask questions, it is only up to her to answer them.

“So you see… this is really just political here, as I act as the representative of House Lannister. This is not about your oaths, or _our_ bloody oaths, this is about _politics_ … And if you knew what’s good for you, you’d leave the castle while you still can,” Jaime huffs, looking her deep in the eye, though Brienne can do nothing but stare back at him.

“What?”

“I will not let the Tullys keep the castle. I was ordered here to handle the siege of Riverrun, so the Freys get the castle they were given by royal decree. I am willing to make all of that happen without bloodshed, don’t get me wrong. If the Blackfish surrenders the castle, I will see to it that they get to leave it alive and with their heads held high, but they are rebels to the Crown and as such I have to treat them. But _that_ is all I have to offer.”

“Lord Brynden won’t agree to that,” Brienne argues.

_If only he would, though…_

“Which proves my point that you’d do best leaving the castle while you still can. If he lives up to his promise, he will do whatever he finds necessary. And I take him for the kind of person who would rather go down fighting than doing what is rational and surrender peacefully while he still can. If you knew what’s good for you, you’d take Podrick and leave the castle while the siege yet to begin. But rest assured that it won’t be long until we make a move.”

_Don't test me, woman. I am being more generous than should be possible at this point of time._

“You mean…”

“If he wants to have parley with me, I am willing to negotiate the terms peacefully. That is the only thing I can offer to him without overturning the Freys. I can’t offer him a castle I have no rights to otherwise. It belongs to the Freys, whether we like it or not,” Jaime snarls.

“We both know it does not. That isn’t right,” Brienne mutters.

“Like it wasn’t right to leave your post in favor of killing the man marching on Winterfell to free it of the Boltons, you mean?” Jaime snaps.

Both stare at each other.

“I am sorry,” he means to say, but she interrupts him, “No, you are right.”

_He has any reason to say such._

_Because he is right._

_And I was wrong._

“It makes no difference. You should keep away from the Blackfish if you knew what’s good for you.”

“He is a man of honor,” Brienne argues. Jaime bites his lower lip.

 _And I am not? I know that this is what everyone else thinks, but I thought that you saw some kind of honor, however shriveled and small, however twisted, in me_ , Jaime wants to say, but does not.

But as it appears, Jaime is just spectacularly bad at reading people he is close to. Wrong with his brother. Wrong with his father. Wrong with his own sister. Wrong with her. Wrong. Wrong. _Wrong_.

“I mean to say that he took me in. He gave me…,” Brienne says, but then stops herself.

_He gave me a duty, a purpose._

Because what is there if she cannot try to at least repay some of that debt she owes to the Tullys? Brienne knows she cannot repay Jaime, no matter how much she would like to. With Sansa dead, she cannot keep that vow in both their names. But the debt to the Tullys? She can pay that debt. She can fulfill that duty. She can do this, Brienne is certain of it.

Because if she doesn’t succeed in this at last, then she failed in everything that matters. Then she failed in everything that gave her life a purpose she cannot find in her mere existence. She needs a cause, a purpose, a duty.

_Because I am nothing without my oaths, just a freak walking around in armor._

“And just now he sent you out into the enemy’s territory without any other backup.”

“Pod is with me,” Brienne insists, furrowing her eyebrows.

What is that supposed to mean?

“And while I believe in him to be a good lad, Pod is still no Tully soldier, is he? The Blackfish didn’t risk any of his own men by sending you out,” Jaime argues. “He is playing you, Brienne, man of honor or not.”

_Don’t you see that? **That** is how much he values you and your vows. To play messenger, acting in front of the closed gates, without a single sword to have your back. _

“He is _not_ playing me. He asked me to deliver a message.”

_Stubborn wench she is._

“He asked you to deliver a message alright, _and_ convince me, no?” Jaime argues.

Brienne says nothing.

“Thought so. He is taking advantage of the fact that he apparently knows that you have ties with me. Don’t be fooled by the man’s honor or former days of glory. A man in grief backed into a corner will not hesitate to bite, even if it’s a hand extended to him in support.”

“I made an oath to him.”

_I bent my knee, skin bitten by the wet stones of the castle’s floors._

“You seem to toss those around lately.”

Jaime closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn’t mean to say these things. He really doesn’t. they just keep coming out of him like poison bubbling in his mouth, seeking release.

Suddenly it seems as though it is no longer her ramming a knife into his side with every bit of news travelling past her lips, but as though he’d just stabbed her, or so it seems judging by the look on her face.

But the truly awful thing is that Jaime cannot stop, because he knows he is right, because he knows she cannot fathom any argument convincing enough that he should do as this parchment tells him to. He knows he is right, simple as that. And he is fed up with her sticking to those now empty-shelled promises, after she was the one to break her oaths in favor of a dead man’s vengeance he will never witness having been carried out.

_The dead won’t mind._

“In any case… I will not back down. The Blackfish doesn’t get to keep the castle. He is free to have parley with me and I will hear his side. I am willing to negotiate the terms, I have some… _limited_ options, but he’ll have to learn a lesson or two when it comes to negotiations if he believes that it works the way he just tried. You don’t just deliver a demand to the army leader laying siege to your castle and say to said leader to fulfill it, or else it’s over. Not if he is the one who should be seeking out alternatives. Because clearly, we have the upper hand here – and he is in no position to overtake us. You can tell him that I am also willing to come into the castle to talk to him, but he can get the idea right out of his mind that I will surrender Riverrun to the Tullys. That won’t happen under any circumstance. I have a duty to my House. I am a Lannister.”

Because he know that this is the plain truth, reality.

He knows he is right – _for once_!

“… If you or Podrick wish to leave Riverrun, you may do so likewise, though,” Jaime adds in a quieter voice, trying to find her eyes, but doesn’t get through to them as she keeps staring at the ground.

And truly, Jaime can’t believe that he has to make that offer again.

“And if we stay?” Brienne asks hesitantly.        

Or rather, that even now she doesn’t want to take it.

“What do you mean?”

“I swore myself to the Tullys.”

_I can’t just leave. Never again. Not after I left Sansa._

“Which was foolish enough, but it makes no difference. You can leave, you can leave right at this second,” Jaime argues. “I don’t even think he’d hold you back, granted just how he sent you to me only just now.”

 _Leave before it’s too late, Brienne. Don’t make such foolish mistakes_ , he means to say, but doesn’t.

 _To where_? she wants to ask, but cannot. _Tarth? To bring even more dishonor to my House than I did in a lifetime? Having forsaken every vow I ever took?_

“I cannot.”

_Truly stubborn wench she is._

“If you stay, I cannot guarantee for your safety,” Jaime insists.

_Just take the offer already, wench, don’t be stupid. Don't you see that I am being more than benevolent against the odds of what happened?_

“And I don’t expect it.”

_I don’t deserve it either._

Jaime licks his lips, letting out a long sigh. “You won’t win Riverrun, Brienne. The Blackfish won’t either. He should know that. There is just no way that he will get to keep the castle. So… tell him that and see to it that you are safe.”

“… My place is with the Tullys. I owe them a debt,” Brienne replies, her voice no more than a whisper.

“You can’t pay them if they do what the Blackfish outlines, because that means you’ll lose your life defending a castle against an army that outmatches the Blackfish’s by far. You can’t pay back when you are dead. Wasn’t it you who told me something like that?”

Jaime studies her, hoping to see a flicker in her eyes, a sign that she remembers, but there is none.

“… I will inform the Blackfish of your answer,” Brienne mutters.

“That is all you have to say?” Jaime demands, blinking.

_C’mon, Brienne._

“I will let Podrick know of your offer, in case he wants to stay in the Lannister camps. He didn’t make vows to the Blackfish.”

“Brienne, that doesn’t answer my question. Did you hear a word I just said? Because I said that you are _risking your life_. I cannot end that siege the way I want it, do you understand? If you fight with the Blackfish, then…”

“I am aware of those consequences,” Brienne says solemnly. “But I have to pay that debt.”

_I have that duty._

_What else but that duty do I have?_

“To the Seven Hells with those debts. You sound like a bloody Lannister!” Jaime pouts.

Brienne blinks at him, but then averts her gaze, and Jaime hates it that she does. He hates all of this. All of this. Everything.

His jaw drops when he sees her unfastening her sword belt.

“What are you… doing?” he asks. Brienne gets the sword off her waist and holds the sword out to Jaime, “I came to return it, too.”

She wanted to come back to King’s Landing to deliver it, until she landed in Riverrun.

“Return… Brienne, I gave you that sword…”

“For a purpose I didn’t achieve. For a purpose I failed to accomplish. It’s yours. You should take it back.”

She holds it out to him another time, hoping that finally he will take it.

Then all ties are cut, no more strings attached that can be twisted into a noose. She has no rights to tie herself to him anymore, if she ever did.

“I don’t demand it back,” Jaime argues.

“But I wish to return it.”

“Keep it already,” he insists.

“No.”

“ _Brienne_.”

She screws her eyes shut, but then walks over to the table upon which the maps are spread out, and lays Oathkeeper on it.

“I am sorry, I really am.”

She turns around.

“Brienne, I mean it, you can take the sword. I have no use for it…,” he means to stay, but then stops himself once it dawns on him. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

 _Why do those words come out in all the wrong ways?_ He never meant for her to return it.

 _But you should_ , Brienne thinks to herself. _I am no use either, sword or not._

“It’s your family’s sword. Keep it. That is the very least I can do. I will talk to the Blackfish in the hope to convince him.”

“Brienne.”

“Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”

And with that, she is out of the tent, leaving Jaime standing there, staring, gaping, shattering on the inside.

By the time he gathered himself, Jaime only gets news from one of the foot soldiers that Brienne and Podrick rode back into Riverrun.

_Back to the Blackfish._

_Damn him._

_Damn her._

_Damn all of this._

_Killing Stannis._

_What was she thinking?!_

The world is truly insane.

And they are along with it, or so it appears.

 _Seven Hells_ , Jaime really wished this had played out in another way.

He walks over to the table to pick up Oathkeeper, glancing at the blade with sadness and growing fury bleeding out of his body. Jaime shakes his head as he puts the sword next to his armor, taking another look at the maps outlining the castle he is supposed to take, the castle he is supposed to attack, the castle that still has Brienne in it.

He lets out a growl as he flings the maps off the table with both his left and his golden hand, sending the papers flying through the air like giant snowflakes, slowly sinking the ground, untouched by the heat and cold dripping out of him.

* * *

“Lord Brynden.”

“Oh, so you are back. Took you long enough. I reckon you had a nice little chat with the Kingslayer,” the Blackfish says as Brienne approaches him in the great hall of Riverrun.

Brienne bites the inside of her cheek until she can taste copper on her tongue. “I did as you bid me and delivered the message.”

“And you made him agree to it?”

“Ser Jaime still seeks parley with you personally,” Brienne says.

“Has he any intention to repay his family’s debt to my House and leave us at least our ancestral home?” the Blackfish demands to know.

“I don’t think it is within his capabilities to make such decisions,” she replies. “He received an order, from the King.”

“Oh, right, the _King_. How old is that lad? Sixteen? Fifteen? _Five_? And a lion through and through, if you trust the rumors,” Brynden huffs.

“Ser Jaime doesn’t mean to fight you. He is willing to negotiate the terms,” Brienne repeats, hoping that somehow, the words will reach him at last, though they all drop dead like insects short before the cold season comes.

“The terms of our surrender.”

“That… yes,” Brienne admits.

“Well, I hope you didn’t make the Kingslayer believe that I would take such an offer.”

“I _hope_ you will. I have seen the camps, my lord. This is a fight we cannot win.”

“I rather go down fighting than have the Lannisters and the Freys move in here, and let their banners roll down these very walls. I promise you this, m’lady, so long I am still drawing my breath, I will not see that happen.”

“Your men will all get killed,” Brienne argues.

“Only if we lose.”

“You will.”

“ _We_ will, you mean to say. Or do you want to shy out of your responsibilities? After you bent the knee to me with tears in your eyes, m’lady?” he asks, cocking a wrinkled eyebrow at her.

“No. I just… I beseech you to at least speak to Ser Jaime. Have parley with him, talk to him, face to face,” Brienne says through gritted teeth, calling to mind how she bent the knee the Blackfish, unable to see a thing as unshed tears clouded her vision the moment it dawned on her another time that Lady Sansa was dead and that it was her fault.

“I will do no such thing. If he is not willing to leave Riverrun to the Tullys after _you_ of all people talked to him, then it can’t be helped,” the Blackfish tells her, shrugging his shoulders.

“M’lord.”

“I thought I made clear that I do not wish your counsel,” the Blackfish snarls.

“And it is no counsel I mean to offer. It’s a plea, m’lord. I plead you to at least _consider_ the alternatives,” Brienne insists.

“For me there is no alternative. There is only one: and that is to die within the walls of my home, either now, or once I die of old age. That is the only way for me to go, m’lady.”

“And your men?”

“They took their vows. They know what they are up to. And they can still try to run to the Freys, though I would recommend they run zig-zag. Or else an arrow may come their way.”

“Lord Brynden,” Brienne wants to say, but he cuts her off harshly, “I don’t want to hear another word from you other than this: I want you to tell me again that you are loyal to my House, to my niece’s House. Because if you cannot promise me that much, it’d be best if you left the castle presently, and perhaps tried your luck bending the knee to the Kingslayer again.”

“I never bent the knee to Ser Jaime,” Brienne argues.

She made a promise to him, a promise she didn’t keep. But she didn’t swear service to him.

_“Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark. And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.”_

Brienne shakes her head. Now is not the time to remember these things.

“I bet. But it makes no difference. Tell me now,” the Blackfish demands.

“I made a promise and I intend to keep it. Your family’s my duty now, my lord. I swear it.”

“Good. Go on, then. I will let you know of the next steps once it’s time.”

“As it please you, my lord.”

Brienne makes her way to her chamber after telling Podrick to leave her alone again. She closes the door behind herself, only to slide down against the door until she sits on the ground, her eyes glistening, but not granting herself to cry, but instead staring at the empty space where there once was Oathkeeper, where there once was a sign of honor, of duty, purpose.

* * *

 

Jaime finds himself pacing through the tent as his mind keeps taking him through the conversation he had with Brienne, the fight he had with her, the revelations that came along with it. His night was restless to say the least, and he wouldn’t want to see anyone after that encounter. At some point, most of the anger he felt deep in the pit of his stomach had died down to a painless heat, and sadness and regret took the place of shock and fury.

Maybe he was too harsh on her? But then again, she couldn’t really expect him to stay calm after dropping such news to his feet, and bringing the Blackfish’s bloody demand and proclaim that he should do what the old goat wants him to do.

As if everything wasn’t bad enough already.

“I need to talk to you,” a man’s voice rings out. Jaime doesn’t even care to look up, knowing Bronn’s voice far better than he’d like to, “It’s not very courteous to just enter people’s tents.”

“Was I supposed to knock?” Bronn snorts, stepping closer.

“What do you want?” Jaime asks, making his annoyance no secret.

“The Freys are getting nervous. They seem to think that you want to give up the castle to the folks in it rather than those on the outside,” Bronn tells him.

“That is what the Blackfish wants, but that is not what the Blackfish will get. They can rest assured,” Jaime huffs.

“And what of that letter then?”

“If he thinks he can make demands with an entire army laying siege to his castle, the Blackfish is mistaken. And anyone who believes that I will just let him have his will because he is old and indeed suffered some many great bads makes a grave mistake. Lannisters are not known for charity.”

A Lannister pays his debts, not his doles.

“What are we going to do about this whole affair between you and the lady knight, then?” Bronn asks straightforwardly. While he is sometimes a bit too much of it, Jaime actually finds it rather refreshing to have someone around him who doesn’t pull one lie after the other.

He is just so fed up with lies.

And false hopes.

“We are not doing anything,” Jaime exhales.

“Really?” Bronn frowns at him. Jaime rolls his eyes at the man. “Then what _do_ you intend to do?”

“The woman is clearly out of her mind. And I can say that I know her and her antics by now. I’ve spent quite some time in her company. She’s mulish enough for the both of us. If she wants to play stupid and fall to her knees before the Blackfish to somehow feel better about herself or in a futile attempt to make good on a broken promise, then she shall do that. I wouldn’t be able to stop her anyways,” Jaime replies, leaning back in his seat.

Seven Hells, even back then he offered, though he could have sent her back to the castle without the offer of a place to stay.

And she did not take it.

_I tried, did I not? What else is there for me to do?_

“Anyone can be convinced,” Bronn shrugs.

“Not her, trust me in this. I had to shove that woman back from a _bear_ because she wouldn’t let me guard her,” Jaime replies, wanting to force a snarky smirk, but fails as the images of her standing in the arena, all bloody and in torn, pink clothes, ebb back into his mind, making him shudder.

“Because you surely would have stood a chance against a bear,” Bronn huffs, amused. Jaime rolls his eyes at him. “What I mean to say is that once she wants something, she holds on to it till the bitter end… well, most of the time. Now that the vow to her precious Renly is fulfilled, she is surely out for finding the next Lord to toss her honor at. Perhaps for her personally it’s really just that. She can only make good on her promise to Catelyn if she vows to her family, or so she believes.”

“Is it that you’re pissed that you’re no longer her Lord?” Bronn then asks, making Jaime stare at him, “I never was.”

“You gave her a mission and she went for you,” Bronn argues. “That’s what I understand does a Lord for someone who serves him.”

“I asked you to go on a quest and you came with likewise. Does that make me your Lord?” Jaime replies.

“No, you _pay_ me for my services, there’s a difference in that. And if you come me now with how the armor and the sword were supposed to be her payment, just go on believing that yourself,” Bronn snorts.

“I am _not_ her Lord,” Jaime insists.

“And aren’t you disappointed about that?” Bronn chuckles, way too amused to Jaime’s liking.

He’s had enough of all that.

“If you mean to imply something, just say so,” Jaime exhales.

“I will say this: A woman who rather stays in front of a bear so that another person’s not hurt speaks not just for mulishness but also for a strong sense of protectiveness. And I see nothing wrong with that,” Bronn tells him. “While I don’t count myself to the protective people, I know when I see them. They are the ones who likely get killed first.”

“Because you know her all that well,” Jaime huffs, though it comes out weaker than intended.

_They are the ones who likely get killed first…_

“ _You_ know her well, I dare you to say that I'm wrong,” Bronn replies with a smug grin Jaime just wants to punch out of him most of the time.

“It’s a plain fact that she wants to protect people. That makes her crazy. Just that when it really mattered, she didn’t protect. She killed _Stannis Baratheon_ of all people. The woman doesn’t even seem to realize how dangerous that was for her own sake. Stannis sympathizers roam around this area here surely likewise – and if words reached them that she’s killed him… I don’t even want to imagine what they’d do with her,” Jaime then says. Bronn tilts his head at him seemingly curious.

In contrast to the wench, Jaime sees that her killing Stannis was reckless for her own sake foremost. While he could care less about Stannis Baratheon, she would have done better letting him perish on his own while marching on Winterfell. Because that would have been on the Boltons, then. But if someone saw her and spread the news? It might have fallen back on her, Seven Hells, it still may. Not that she’d be made a political enemy, but there are always singular people who may wish to take revenge for someone they believed was the true king after Robert.

Not to mention how this might fall back on the Lannisters – and hence the Throne, and hence on Tommen sitting on that very throne.

While it doesn’t _have_ to have greater consequences, it _may_ have – but of course, the wench saw nothing of it, and still doesn’t want to open her big blue eyes to that reality. She keeps her eyes closed to those matters because she seemingly wants to go on believing that honor justifies it all, that honor protects it all.

Even though Jaime knows that honor is a more than fragile, thin armor, no matter how much it reflects the sunlight, no matter how beautiful it looks. Honor doesn’t protect you from much of anything. But Gods beware if people are to know that you are without it. They will attack you ever the harder, but at least you then trade that fancy armor for one that is tough enough to withstand the blows.

When he told her something along these lines, she seemed only more pained and more angered, though. Because the stupid thing always mistakes his actions for something else, or so it seems. Jaime, in fact, brought himself to be concerned for her sake, by the Seven, and see how she thanks him for it.

“So… you don’t want to do anything about her and the Blackfish,” Bronn wrinkles his nose.

“What am I supposed to do? Ride to the castle and demand her release? She’s there on her own free will. The Blackfish’s using her to get to me. Why else would he have sent her to my camp, to convince me to leave Riverrun to his House, even though he _should_ know that this is not how you negotiate the terms of surrender in a siege? He wants to buy victory, and that pretty cheap, I may add,” Jaime argues.

“Better let her not hear that,” Bronn snorts. “She’d likely hit you, hard.”

“I’m talking about the global dimension here, not her actual worth or whatever else. For him, it’s of little cost to use Brienne to that end. If the Freys had taken her or so, he wouldn’t even have lost one of his men. And with that demand he wrote for me… If I don’t take the bait, well, so be it, nothing is lost. If I were foolish enough to enter negotiations with him for Brienne’s sake only in the slightest, he’d have only gain from it,” Jaime tells him. “He has either gain or simply no gain, but no loss. So the best I can do is to make sure that he doesn’t gain from this trick in any way.”

“What if he’s one of those folks who mean her harm, though?” Bronn questions.

“Brienne’s safe with the Blackfish for as long as he believes that he can make her worth a bargain. He’s many things, but not stupid. If he did her harm, he’d only risk to have us marching against him – and defeating him. Brienne is actually quite safe with the Blackfish for now,” Jaime explains to him.

Does he really think he didn’t think this through?

Jaime wouldn’t have had much trouble holding her against her will if he knew her life had been at danger already at that point, no matter how angry Brienne would have been with him.

“And after that siege is over? Is she still safe with that man, then?” Bronn asks. “Because I don’t take that man for someone who’s going to just give up. They wanted to hang his nephew, they said. And he didn’t care.”

Jaime leans back in his chair, knocking a large chess figure with a lion’s head on the wooden table. He only heard it from Black Walder when he went on boasting about this. Jaime has seen to it that Edmure was given over into the care of the Lannisters, but the fact that the Blackfish wouldn’t do anything to see the man safe tells Jaime very clearly that Edmure is useless to him at this point, as a hostage, that is.

“However much our likes are out for battle, this situation ought to be handled with the required discretion and care it takes to bypass bloodshed. We’ve had enough of that.”

“So we aren’t making this personal?” Bronn questions.

“I see no reason for that yet,” Jaime says, his mind focusing more and more on the noise of the wooden lion figure hitting the table.

“What will you do with the sword?” Bronn asks, nodding at Oathkeeper propped up on a small side table that Jaime gave a wide berth this whole time.

“I won’t give it to you for your marvelous services, that much is for sure,” Jaime huffs.

“Ah, pity. I would have kept it,” Bronn chuckles.

“That’s because you don’t care about honor.”

“Neither do you.”

“Exactly, she’s the only one who still holds on to it that stubbornly,” Jaime exhales.

“Well, we’ll have to see what survives by the end of the day.”

“You mean to say?” Jaime looks at him.

“Wouldn’t an honorable ruler be nice for once?” Bronn replies with a small grin.

“Politics corrupt everything,” Jaime snorts.

Kingdoms.

People.

Souls.

Politics suck the good out of everything.

“Which is why I understand why people tend to keep out of them, like I do. In any case, I have to head out,” Bronn says, twisting his thumbs in the loops of his sword belt.

“You’re not riding to Riverrun, are you?”

“Why would I? No, I want to see if I can’t find myself an inn in this godforsaken place,” Bronn replies, rolling his shoulders.

“Ah, right, you are lonely again, aren’t you?” Jaime chuckles, slightly amused.

“Why yes! I'm still looking for someone willing to share her castle with me, as I keep saying!”

“Ah, the great love,” Jaime hums sarcastically.

“As you say, politics corrupt everything.”

“True again.”

“Does Tarth have a nice castle, do you know?” Bronn asks, cocking an eyebrow at Jaime, whose jaw drops, “ _What_?!”

Bronn lets out a throaty laugh before turning on the heel, “I’m heading out.”

Jaime blinks as the other man walks off without another word.


	3. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has an unexpected visitor in the camp. 
> 
> Brienne is yet again summoned to the great hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around an kudoing and commenting. You are such a kind readership. 
> 
> I hope you'll like this chapter (though this one's shorter again - as already mentioned, with the themes, I had to decide if I want to do sub-chapter for each day to have the same length most of the time, or do it within the seven days and seven chapters, and I rolled with that). Man, I'm still nervous as hell because I have to wrap this up within the week. Argh. 
> 
> Greatest thanks to SendARaven again, for smoothing out some of the many edges to my story. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Jaime finds himself roaming through the camps. He just had a talk with Edmure, in the hope that perhaps you can talk more sense into _that_ man, if his uncle already proves to be an old, stubborn goat, not moving off his path by only just an inch. After all, _he_ is the rightful heir of Riverrun, not his uncle.

Though if there is one thing that Jaime learned over the course of time, then it is that heritage and blood lines can run dry so long you take what you think you have rights to. And if your men follow you, there is nothing standing in the way. The Blackfish enjoys the advantage of having very loyal men on his side, and that Edmure is apparently _not_ a walking legend, or even a very likable character to begin with. There are men who can captivate a crowd, men who inspire others to give up their lives in a heartbeat, but Edmure Tully is not made of that stuff. 

So it remains questionable at best if the men made the choice for their rightful lord or the one they just call their lord because they consider the Blackfish their true leader. 

But Edmure is either too coward or too reluctant to collaborate with them. Even an offer to have him go to Casterly Rock to live with his wife who already gave birth to their child did nothing much to convince him. That mulish stubbornness seems to run in the Tully’s entire bloodline, or so it seems.

_Damn them all._

Perhaps Brienne is related to them by any means? _That’d explain a lot._

Brienne.

Jaime still can't believe just what he learned, just what he saw. He can't believe much of anything. Sansa, Stannis... and that Brienne wouldn't accept his help even when he offeredd it in a situation where most other men would have backed away.

But even now she doesn't seem to trust him. Why else would she refuse his his offer of protection?

It wasn't that difficult, was it? All it took was a message back to Riverrun to inform Lord Brynden that she wouldn't be coming back. The Blackfish could have turned green in his fury, and it wouldn't have mattered.

It's not like the Blackfish gave any hint that Brienne mattered to him enough to even bother with some basic protection by virtue of sending her out alone. So it seems unlikely that he would provoke a march of the Frey-Lannister forces on Riverrun only because Brienne may have decided to stay under Jaime's protection instead.

But the stubborn wench she is, she did not agree.

She ran away.

_From me._

And she even left the sword. Jaime couldn't bear to look at it ever since he put it down beside his armor.

Needless to mention that he didn't catch any sleep last night. If it wasn't Myrcella's eyes fading away under the vines of red blood that haunted him once he closed his eyes, it was Brienne's expression so full of anguish and pain that had him wide-awake only minutes after he screwed his eyes shut. Jaime has seen her broken down before. After she learned about Catelyn's death, he had seen a similar expression, though she did better to hide it back in King's Landing, knowing very well that the situation demanded of her to stay stoic around the royals, and his family specifically. But even that bit of self-control seemed to have left her yesterday.

In some way, she seemed even more naked than she was in the bathtubs in Harrenhal, and the Gods know she was bare that day. But yesterday? Even the armor he had given her seemed to offer no protection for her anymore, or rather, it seemed like the only thing keeping her together, keeping her body from coming apart under the pressure of regret and conflicting oaths.

And Jaime knows from experience that this is the kind of dance that leaves you on the verge of breaking apart.

But all of that makes no difference now. Because the situation, plain and simple, is that she refused his help, and that Jaime feels like anger should have the better of him instead of the lingering concern that leaves his bowels in a tight knot.

_This woman will be the death of me one day._

Jaime lets out a low growl in his throat as he means to walk back into his camp, fully anticipating that he will only go on being moody once he is back in the tent, but it’s better not to let the soldiers know of any of this. Jaime knows better than to involve these men in private matters.

As the lord leading the forces, that is the least he can do.

If only it wasn’t as frustrating as it is.

It’s not enough that he has to deal with all of this foolery about this stupid castle, no, now it’s also about Brienne. And he’d rather not have her involved into any of this because that woman has a tendency to get herself into trouble… or anyone else for the matter.

Sansa Stark. Stannis Baratheon. Just where does this end?

Where does the trouble end and the silver lining begin?

If there even is one…

But then again, perhaps that is what you get for being a Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, for turning a blind eye on everything around you in the hope to keep up something you should have let go of a long time ago.

Or for simply being a bad man, always meant to fail after too many crimes committed, and too many years spent in the self-chosen darkness.

Jaime doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really care either. He just knows that this is the situation, and that it means no good.

He looks around, frowning as he sees a familiar figure with black hair, and a lost facial expression as he looks around.

“… Podrick?!”

“Ser Jaime!” the lad almost yelps upon seeing Jaime drawing closer with fast strides.

_Maybe the wench has come to her senses after all?_

“Where’s Brienne? Has she decided to discuss with us another time at last?” Jaime asks.

_Will she finally let me protect her?_

After all, that seems easy enough, in contrast to what happened with Myrcella. Here it is just about her leaving the castle, and staying in the camps.

_Then she’d be safe. It’s **just** that simple. _

“I’m here on my own, Ser,” Pod replies, averting his gaze.

“Why?” Jaime asks, furrowing his eyebrows at the lad.

_That would have been too much luck anyway._

“M’lady has sent me.”

“Well, why did she send you, then? Is it another message from the Blackfish?"

"No, Ser, it has nothing to do with Lord Brynden."

"Then what is this about?" Jaime asks, growing impatient.

“I don’t know, Ser. She woke me in the midst of the night and told me to leave the castle presently. She’s set up a boat for me by one of the sides of the castle, with my bags packed and all set. I crossed over the back of the river not to run into Frey soldiers until I came here. She’s told me to stay in the Lannister camps for my own safety.”

“Why didn’t she come with you?” Jaime questions, his mouth nervously flexing as his muscles start to tighten up to the point that he can feel the strain becoming a stabbing kind of pain reaching from his fingertips to the soles of his feet.

“She didn’t say. She just told me to row and not ask questions… and so I did... eventually,” Pod tells him, bowing his head. “I asked her to let me stay, or to at least explain it to me, but m’lady couldn’t be convinced, no matter how much I argued. She already told me to stay here the last time we rode into your camp, to tell the truth, but of course I stayed with her, as her squire.”

“That sounds like her…,” Jaime huffs. “Did the Blackfish do something to her? Or you? Did he say something?”

 _Something_ must have driven her to the point that she considered leaving Podrick alone. Say what you want about Brienne, most of the time, she’ll protect the people she has to care for the best she can. It’s unlike her to send Podrick away overnight, and not officially. Both the Tullys and the Freys may have taken Podrick for someone of the opposite side and shot him down. Jaime can’t imagine why Brienne would have put his life at risk if not for a good reason.

“He’s ordered m’lady to his hall very often these days, for hours. I rarely saw her, in fact, because I was only granted attendance to those meetings every now and then. M’lady usually told me to stay in the room I was assigned. And I did as she bid me,” Podrick tells him. "I reckon she wanted to keep me out of her oath's business as far as that was possible."

“Did he hurt her?” Jaime asks, a low rumble in his chest.

 _If the old goat dared to_ …

“Not that I know. And I don’t think she’d let him either,” Pod tells him. “She’d smack him right back, I imagine.”

“True,” Jaime lets out a dry laugh. “So she seemingly believes that you would have been in more danger, had you stayed.”

“I reckon so,” Podrick agrees solemnly.

“But if it poses a threat to you, it would also pose a threat to her…,” Jaime mumbles pensively, not liking the taste those implications leave on his tongue.

She tries to protect him, but not herself.

_They are the ones who likely get killed first…_

And Brienne is most certainly aware of that circumstance. Seven Hells, if only half the words he spoke reached her, she should remember that Jaime warned her about _just_ that.

“That’s what I told her, too. I said she should come with me if she thought it too dangerous for us to stay in Riverrun. She couldn’t be convinced, no matter what I said. She more or less shoved me into the boat.”

“Because then the Blackfish would know where to go looking… and she swore herself to him, so there is also that…,” Jaime says, pulling the corners of his moth into a sour grimace as it dawns on him. “Or she thinks the siege won’t go in his favor, so she’s decided to make sure that you are out of the line of fire.”

“There will be a line of fire?” Podrick asks, pursing his lips. “M’lady said that you still meant to seek parley with Lord Brynden.”

“There will be no line of fire if we can help it, but it might be something he’s told her, or something she believes herself. She’s too much into war anyways,” Jaime huffs.

“M’lady hasn’t been herself ever since the… happenings in Winterfell,” Podrick tells him in a hushed voice.

“I hope she wasn’t herself during the happenings either.” Jaime shakes his head with a snarl.

Because if that was indeed her, then Jaime has an entirely wrong picture of her.

And Jaime has enough wrong pictures of people he believed himself to know.

“...  I was the one who told her about Stannis,” Pod admits, bowing his head. “Had I not told her, then maybe…”

He bites his lower lip, lowering his gaze.

“She would have found out anyway… and there was no way in the Seven Hells that she would have stopped, I believe,” Jaime exhales, offering a small, reassuring smile. Pod is most definitely not to blame for any of this, and he can’t imagine that Brienne meant for him to feel that way.

He has seen that woman's stubbornness, felt it. She saw the devotion in her eyes when she spoke of Renly. There is no doubt in Jaime that she would have acted this way or another. At some point he starts to get the impression that it was the only way Brienne _could_ ever act.

_The things we do for love..._

“Neither one of us thought that Lady Sansa would move in any way the moment the soldiers started marching. We really thought we had a bit of time,” Podrick exhales. “But it makes no difference now. I fear for her, Ser.”

“One good squire you are, aren’t you?” Jaime chuckles, amused.

“She’s taught me well.”

“I bet she did,” Jaime can’t help the small smile.

“So is there anything we can do?” Podrick asks.

“I suppose so.”

“And will you… help? I mean, after what happened…”

Jaime frowns.

Does Podrick only echo what Brienne believes? That he wouldn’t help her after what happened back at Winterfell?

_Do you still think I didn’t mean it, Brienne?_

“We will… sound out the situation. The last thing we need is escalation to begin before we know means to control the damage,” Jaime replies, his mouth flexing. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Fetch Bronn for me. He should be with the other Lannister soldiers by the big campfire over there. Tell him to meet me in the tent. And tell him that it’s _urgent_.”

“Yes.”

“Make sure no words are spoken to the soldiers. I don’t want rumors to spread.”

“Aye.”

With that Podrick rushes off. Jaime scratches the back of his head.

_Do you really believe that you couldn’t come to me even though I offered?_

_Or are you just too stubborn to accept the protection of a Lannister?_

* * *

 

 “You wished to speak to me, Lord Brynden?” Brienne asks as she finds herself yet again ordered to Riverrun’s great hall.

Always the same way, back and forth, treading the same murky water, stepping over the same wet stones.

“My soldiers told me that they are missing a boat,” the Blackfish says in a low hiss.

“It is on the other side of the river, but I have enough coin to replace it,” Brienne replies, folding her hands in the back.

“So you don’t even try to hide that you stole it,” he huffs.

“I didn’t steal it.”

“But you took it without permission.”

“It had to be done.”

“And _what_ had to be done? If I am informed correctly, you gave that boat to your squire, who seems to be gone ever since last night,” the Blackfish says, his face painted dark, the wrinkles of skin creeping over his face like black snakes, ready to strike and spread their poison.

“Yes. Podrick wished to go back to the Lannister camps, so once he made the decision, I saw to it that he could leave without further problems. I feared that the Freys may mistake him for a Tully man and fire at him. Therefore, I chose to send him out in the night and move in from the Western side to arrive directly at the Lannister camps,” Brienne explains, keeping her voice leveled and calm.

“And you did not consider talking about that decision with me first?” Brynden cocks an eyebrow at her.

“I said that I will replace the boat, I will pay you double, but I think you apparently happen to have enough boats for twice the men you have in the castle,” Brienne replies.

“Who told you that you could just send the lad away?”

“No one. It’s his choice.”

“You made a vow to me.”

“And so I did. But Podrick did _not_. He is _my_ squire, not yours, with all due respect, my lord. If he wishes to go, then it is my duty to see to it that he is under protection while he leaves. If I terminate his service to me is not of your concern. I agree that I should have asked for the boat beforehand, but I took an old one, to be sure, and as I said, I am willing to pay for the expenses.”

Podrick’s safety is one of the few things she may still guarantee – and Brienne shall be damned if she lets him fall victim to her broken vows and desperate duties.

“I don’t care about that bloody boat. I care about it that you moved behind my back,” the Blackfish snarls. “You are perhaps the most reluctant soldier of sorts who ever swore allegiance to me.”

“I did no such thing. I released my squire from his duties. He belongs to the Lannisters, not the Tullys,” Brienne insists.

She would have left Podrick in the Lannister camps right from the start, but she had to force him. Eventually, Brienne had seen no other way but to take the steps for him and just show him to the packed boat. If left with the choice, he would have stayed, she is sure, but Brienne cannot have him stay, not under these circumstances.

“And you? Who do _you_ belong to?”

Brienne purses her lips.

_Who do I belong to? Good question, perhaps. Do I belong to Renly, to Lady Catelyn, Sansa, Arya, or Ser…?_

“Lion or trout, m’lady? Lion or wolf?”

Brienne’s mouth stands open for a long moment until she can gather herself again.

“I swore to you that I am at your service, and that is what I am. If I release Podrick or not changes nothing about that vow, my lord.”

“Up to this point, you have not been very good at it, may I say? You constantly move behind my back,” the Blackfish retorts. “It seems that you fight me more than you mean to support me, no matter that you bent your knee to the Tullys.”

“I did _not_ move behind your back. I only saw to it that my squire could leave safely,” Brienne argues.

She did his bidding and sought out Jaime. She delivered the message, and while she did not really agree to it, she still argued for his cause. He can’t blame her for Jaime not agreeing to that demand.

“As he could have done, had he gone through the great front gate, you know, the one you rode through as boldly as you did upon entering the castle.”

“Would you have let him, my lord?” Brienne replies, her voice steadier than her heart feels like.

Because her heart is like a raging storm, short before smashing against a cliff.

“What?” the Blackfish questions, stunned for a moment.

“Would you have let him, had I asked you? Because if you did not, then how was I supposed to see him safely to the Lannister camps?” Brienne goes on. 

The Blackfish lets out a small growl, seemingly feeling caught. Though Brienne guessed as much. Why would he lower the gates? Brienne had to think quick about getting Pod to safety, and that seemed to be the best option.

She trusts this man's honor, but she doesn't trust all of his decisions lately.

“And how am I supposed to know that you didn’t use the squire to get the Kingslayer secret information?”

Brienne is just so fed up with this. And if not for having bent the knee and not wanting to drag anyone into her own messes ever again, she still feels any urge to jump into a boat and row away.

“ _What_ secret information, my lord? Ser Jaime knows how many men you have, he knows how many arms you have. I don’t know about this castle a lot. What information would I send him? There is nothing I can tell him even if I wanted, which is not to say that I do.”

“Woman, if I didn’t know better, I would be inclined to take you for a traitor.”

Brienne swallows thickly, his spit tasting like tar on her tongue.

 _Traitor_.

If only she could object that. She would have refused such an insult not long ago, but that was before there was frozen blood in the snow, before a candle got lit only to be doused forever.

She betrayed her back then.

She betrayed her vow.

To Lady Catelyn.

_And… Jaime._

“I am merely protecting my squire, my lord. You can be certain of my loyalty to you, though.”

_However much that loyalty is worth…_

“Is that so?” The older man cocks an eyebrow at her, and for a moment Brienne can’t help but wonder if that is what it feels like to be called “Kingslayer”, just that she didn’t slay a king, but didn’t protect a man’s kin, though she’d sworn to do just that.

“Of course. I made an oath…”

_Like that other oath I made. Oh, by the Seven, just how hollowed out do those words sound as they echo over the wet stone of the castle?_

And all Brienne wants to feel anything like that again. She doesn’t want to feel hollow, carved out. Brienne had dared to hope that maybe dedicating herself to the Tully’s cause would fill some of the holes gaping in her body, but the more time she spends running circles, the more of herself seems to be cut out with a blunt knife.

“An oath you made,” he agrees. “And what an oath it was… still, you seem rather reluctant about fulfilling it.”

“Not about matters that concern my personal obligations to you. Podrick had and still has no obligations to you, since he made no vow to you. I do, and I did as you told me. I rode into the Lannister camps, I delivered the message you gave me, I explained your cause to Ser Jaime, what you asked, I did…”

“Unsuccessfully.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t do the best I could, my lord.”

“Let me ask you this question: If you consider me your lord, or at least someone you owe a debt to, then that means you’d do my bidding, yes?” he asks, the shadowy eels creeping over his face again.

“I… would most certainly try,” Brienne replies slowly.

She knows that game by now. Though it is not really a game, not for him, not for her. He would ask her questions to test her loyalty, and she would renew her word. And at some point she can see the distress in his features, as though he didn’t mean to ask but still ended up doing it.

“So if I told you to kill the Kingslayer if given the chance, you’d do it?” he asks, his face so blank it lacks any features.

“What?” Brienne can do nothing but stare.

“That is just a hypothetical question.”

“Hypothetical,” Brienne repeats, tasting acid in her mouth.

_“He is playing you, Brienne, man of honor or not.”_

“Even if I wanted, and I do _not_ want, there is _no_ way I can sneak into the camps and slay him.”

“But neither _would_ you?” he asks. 

“ _Why_ would I kill him?”        

A man of honor would never even attempt to ask such service of her.

He would never even think of it.

Jaime never would have asked her to kill the Blackfish, that’s for sure.

“If I were to ask that service of you in exchange for the debt you mean to repay me, perhaps?”

“You can’t be sincere.” Brienne shakes her head.

That seems so very unlike him.

Just who is the man hidden in the shadows?

And where did the man of honor go of whom great ballads are sung?

“ _Hypothetical_.”

“If the Lannister armies come marching on Riverrun, I will fight alongside you, have no doubt, my lord. I will protect you with my own life if I must. But I won’t assassinate Ser Jaime. My King was killed in his tent, from behind. I wouldn’t ever mean for such a thing to repeat itself. That is not honorable and you cannot demand such service of me in turn,” Brienne snarls. “That’d shame us both.”

She never could.

_Never._

_There is just no way._

_Not Jaime._

“That is all, then,” the Blackfish says, leaning back in his chair slightly.

“What?” Brienne blinks at him.

“You may return to your chamber.”

“But…”

“You are to return to your chamber now, or am I to lower the gates for you as well, to run back the Kingslayer and seek protection under the Lion of Lannister?” he snarls.

Still the same game.

But with different rules.

Brienne’s eyes flutter for a moment as she gathers herself.

When she bent her knee, this was not what she vowed.

This is not what she signed up for.

“Am I to lower the gates?” he repeats.

Brienne’s mouth opens once, but no words come out.

She wants to leave, but she has to stay.

She cannot go to Jaime, she must not. Not after what she has done to him, to their shared vow, his honor. She simply cannot.

She has no place to go without putting everything to shame she ever stood for.

She has no place but this one.

She has no place but this circle to run again and again and again.

But Brienne shall be damned if she just blindly agrees to all the man with black eels creeping over his face has to say.

And maybe, just maybe… if she keeps walking, if she keeps talking, then maybe the man of honor she saw standing in front of her as she had confessed her wrongs by Winterfell and took her hand to accept her service will come back out of the shadows.

She has to try.

She owes him that much.

He is a man in grief, too reluctant to accept defeat, and to accept help.

_“A man in grief backed into a corner will not hesitate to bite, even if it’s a hand extended to him in support.”_

But just because it seems impossible doesn’t release you from a vow. She learned that lesson painfully as she looked upon the ruby crystals of fresh snow by the walls of Winterfell.

She has to stay.

Has to.

Maybe she can protect them all, if only she tries hard enough, if only she succeeds in this one thing.

She has to try.

Has to.

**_Has to._ **

 “… As it pleases you, my lord. I shall be in my chamber,” Brienne says at last.

Though that game only makes a loser of them both.

Brienne walks away stiffly until she reaches her room. She crosses over to the window to glance outside on the water which seems unnaturally tranquil in the face of the war in small about to unleash.

_Maybe I should have…_

Brienne balls her fists until her blunt nails leave crescents in her palms.

_No. You have forsaken any so such right. **This** is your right. This is what you earned yourself. You will not break that one vow. _

_You cannot._

_Must not._

_You protected yourself before, you always did, and so you will now, too._

_You have a vow to protect._

_A promise to honor to keep._


	4. Reluctance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a talk with his advisors. 
> 
> Brienne has dinner with the Blackfish. 
> 
> Birds fly away and birds fly back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for kudoing, commenting, and generally sticking around for the ride. 
> 
> I am sorry for the belated update. I didn't get it finished yesterday, my apologies. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you'll like it. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Jaime now finds himself pacing in his tent, his boots slowly but surely leaving a trail in the ground. Bronn is sprawled over one of the chairs, another propped up under his feet. Pod looks a little out of place, nervousness flitting over his young features like upset birds about to fly away.

“So… I have been sitting here a good while just watching you two say and do nothing. And because you are not some tavern wenches that at least give me something pleasant to look at, this starts to annoy me. So I will start the conversation. What are we supposed to do now?”

“In case it went without your notice, _that_ is what I am currently trying to figure out,” Jaime tells him, making his annoyance no secret.

“The Freys are growing impatient, I tell you. The only things that stand between the soldiers starting to do something stupid is the women, the wine, and that they have a good reason to be afraid that we are going to end them if they act as foolishly as they seem to be by nature. They will strike with or without you soon enough, though. They are dumb like that.”

“I am aware of that circumstance,” Jaime replies, rolling his eyes.

That the Freys are a bunch of stupid chickens is nothing new… probably to anyone but the Freys at this point.

“Well, what do you intend to do about it, then? Because let me tell you, a one-handed man won’t stop an army that is craving a nice summer residence they think they have rights to,” Bronn says, his voice cheery as always, but nonetheless cutting through like the sharpest of knives.

“But the Blackfish refuses any other negotiation than surrendering the castle to him. And I cannot do that. Neither will I.”

“Well, if those are all options available, I suppose it can’t be helped, then,” Bronn says, putting one foot down to get up, but Jaime hisses at him, “You will sit still and use your brain for once. I pay you to keep my counsel. Now is your time.”

“Well, it’d be easier if she were a hostage. Then we could try an exchange,” Bronn exhales, leaning back in the chair again.

“I can’t exchange our one leverage for Brienne,” Jaime argues.

Edmure is no option. If they don’t have him anymore, there is _no_ way to put the Blackfish under any sort of pressure. Though then again, at some point it remains questionable if the Blackfish even cares about his nephew anymore. He was willing to have him hanged in front of the walls of Riverrun after all.

So really, just how much does that leverage mean now?

“Neither do I think she would go even if I offered a trade,” Jaime goes on. “This is insane.”

Just why couldn’t she stay in the camps? Now this is all part of the political issue, which is big enough without the personal turmoil tossed into it like dry leaves to a campfire.

_That woman would never know just how much of a role she plays in this whole bloody game._

“Tell me about it,” Bronn snorts. “At some point I thought we’d just take the castle and be done. This siege starts to stress me out, and it didn’t even involve any fighting yet.”

“Which was the initial plan, but… well, that option is no longer available,” Jaime grunts, starting to pace again.

_I am only walking circles anyway._

“Pod?” he looks at the lad shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Yes, Ser Jaime?” Podrick asks, his eyes instantly focusing on the older man.

“What exactly happened when you came to Riverrun?”

“I… we heard that the Tullys held the castle, so we wanted to go to the Blackfish to inform him about Lady Sansa’s demise. After all… Lady Sansa was his family, and we could obviously not just send a raven… He was… _shocked_. At first he didn't even want to let us into the castle.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of the sword,” Pod says, nodding at the blade now resting against Jaime’s armor.

Because of the lion for a pommel.

 _It’s actually small wonder that the Blackfish is not at all pleased about Brienne’s presence to the point that he’d send her alone into the Lannister camps_ , Jaime thinks to himself. _She is clad in Lannister, thinking about it._

Though the much more nagging thought is the one that this may get Brienne into _even more_ trouble.

“But then he did and m’lady was very apologetic. Lord Brynden granted us shelter. Short time later, the Freys laid siege to the castle. M’lady was then summoned to the great hall and Lord Brynden demanded that if she meant what she said, namely to repay the debt she owes his family, she’d swear herself to the Tully’s cause. And that is what m’lady has done.”

Jaime wrinkles his nose, contemplating.

This is not at all what he wanted this to be like.

“Well, no matter when she swore herself to him, or under what circumstance, the issue is that our options remain limited so long that old goat won’t have parley with me,” Jaime says with a grimace.

“Then we have to make him have parley with us,” Bronn replies with a roll of his shoulders. “The dwarf would probably just send in some whores to convince the Blackfish of the agreement.”

Jaime sucks the insides of his cheek into his mouth.

_Well, I am **not** my brother, thank the Seven. _

“I don’t think the Blackfish would lower the gates just for some tavern wenches,” Jaime tells him. “Not everyone responds to that the way you or the little traitor do.”

“If they are pretty enough?” Bronn chuckles, wriggling his eyebrows at him.

“You are sincere?” Jaime deadpans.

“No.”

“Good. How about you try it, though?” the former Lord Commander snaps.

_This is important._

_It’s about this siege._

_About lives to protect._

_… about her._

“Well, I was serious about the first part. You say the only way to resolve the situation is to have parley with him, so we should think about how we make _that_ happen before we bother our heads sore about whatever else,” Bronn tells him.

“I was that far already, but that doesn’t answer the question of _how_ we achieve that.”

“Hey, I never said I offer solutions, I just toss in some inspirations.”

“Just that they are not inspirational.”

“Then you’re not creative enough.”

“Well, if Brienne believes it’s a lost cause, the Blackfish is that _close_ to making a move. Why else would she think that?” Jaime mutters.

She must think that there is just no other way but this. That this is the only way. She must think the Blackfish is short about making a reckless move.

And that means that he has to make that parley happen, or else there will be no way to end this without bloodshed.

_Without us standing on opposite sides._

Just why did she have to refuse his help?

Why is she so reluctant about accepting his hand offered in support? He knows he only has one, but the one he has he extended to her against all odds, he did, but still, she didn’t take it.  

“So… any conclusions? Or are we just going to stare at each other until this whole ordeal is over?”

Jaime lets out another long sigh, trying to think of why Brienne moved the way she did, and what way she moves now that she is back in the castle.

 _I know this woman_ , he thinks to himself. _Well_ … _I **thought** I did, but still. I have travelled with her. I cannot be so entirely wrong in my assessment of her. _

What would Brienne do?

Just affirm her vow of fealty to him and polish her weapons for the attack?

_No. Not her._

She carried his message to the Blackfish.

She tried or perhaps still tries to convince him of ending the siege without bloodshed.

Of seeking out the options.

Parley.

_She is my voice within Riverrun._

“And I have the voice of Riverrun here…,” Jaime mumbles, his eyes widening somewhat.

“What?” Bronn makes a face at him. Jaime turns to him slowly. “No matter what, Edmure Tully is the rightful Lord of Riverrun. Not his uncle.”

“Well, the Blackfish doesn’t care about that. He was willing to have him hanged,” Bronn points out to him.

“Then we have to change his mind,” Jaime says. “Podrick, grab parchment, ink, and quill. We ought to write a letter.”

“Can’t we do it here?” the lad asks, knitting his eyebrows.

“No, I will need someone else’s signature on that parchment. So grab the things and come. We have to pay someone a visit urgently.”

It might be for nothing, but Jaime shall be damned if he doesn't seek out all alternatives available to him.

If she is his voice within, then he has to find the voice of Riverrun on the outside.

Even if Edmure might be a bit reluctant about that.

But Jaime could care less about that.

He managed to convince perhaps the most stubborn woman on earth before – Edmure Tully is nothing compared to her.

* * *

 

Brienne finds herself at yet another dinner in an almost empty hall, with just Lord Brynden at the one end, and her the other.

An alcove of loneliness and desperation.

An empty space that probably was once filled with life and laughter, but now only echoes remain as forks hit plates in silence.

“… Is there anything new about our next moves?” Brienne asks quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the grayish vegetables on her plate.

“Will you mean to lecture me again?” he sighs, sounding annoyed.

“I am _not_ lecturing you.”

_I am trying to help._

“But you still want me to take the deal the Kingslayer has to offer. Surrender the castle and go off to where he tells me to, no?”

“I never said that. I said that you should seek out parley,” Brienne argues.

“I hear this song again and again, if from different birds,” the older man sighs. “But let me ask you this question, m’lady.”

“Yes?” She looks at him, even if there is nothing much to see as the shadows keep fracturing his skin, make stone out of flesh, leave nothing but a lithic grimace.

“Let’s pretend that… I take the deal the Kingslayer seems to have in mind. We surrender the castle, no one dies. We leave. The Freys take Riverrun… and now I ask you, what becomes of us after that, in your opinion?” Lord Brynden asks, folding his hands under his chin as he chews on the last bit of meat.

“You’ll live. _We_ will live. And Ser Jaime… he will surely see to it that you are kept safe,” Brienne replies slowly, not liking the tone with which he speaks.

“Hm, _safe_. You see, Lady Brienne, I am well aware of the circumstance that we are considered rebels to the Crown. And how are rebels treated, you tell me?” he asks, his voice surprisingly calm, though it is just that calm that sends shivers up and down Brienne’s spine.

She swallows thickly.

“Judging by your facial expression, I think you know what I am hinting at. Rebels won’t get a reward for surrendering a castle the Crown considers not theirs anyway. We will be imprisoned, for our _treason_ ,” he says, letting out a small laugh at the word “treason”. “And truth be told, m’lady, I rather die than rot in the Twin’s dungeons, listening to Walder Frey fuck yet another bride, taking for himself what he stole from us, drawing his rotten breath as he decides if he wants to live in this castle or the other for when Winter is Coming.”

“I am most certain that Ser Jaime can arrange for it that you will not be moved to the Twins. If you sought parley with him…,” Brienne means to say, but the Blackfish is quick enough to interrupt her. “Lady Brienne, think about it. Even if this man you seem to value _way_ too highly in my opinion is the man of honor you take him for… what do you think are his options? Do you think he’ll let us walk free? Send my men back home? Give us a new castle? He has to take us prisoner, or something to that effect. He is here by royal decree, right? Even if he had any interest in us, which I still dare doubt, he would not and could not let us walk. He’d have to put us in chains. And frankly, it doesn’t matter to me if I rot under the Rock or the Twins, so long I decay down there, slowly, painfully, until nothing remains of me.”

Brienne rolls her shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension out of her muscles.

Perhaps the true pain is that Lord Brynden even has a point in this. Jaime is a Lannister, and he was ordered here by the Crown. He couldn’t let the Blackfish get away after the Red Keep considers the act of retaking the castle an act of treason, even if it is just a desperate return home in reality.

But none of that matters now, Brienne decided the moment she got dressed for dinner with Lord Brynden.

She has to find her voice, she has to find it now.

Or else they are all doomed.

“May I speak openly, my lord?” she asks slowly, putting down her fork to look him right in the eye.

_Now is the time._

“Be my guest, however much guest right in general is worth these days…,” the Blackfish chuckles sadly.

“Lord Brynden… I understand you. I really do. Even if I seem to oppose you all the while, I _understand_ you. I understand that you want to protect your ancestral home. I understand your fury over the loved ones you lost thanks to the Freys, and yes, thanks to Ser Jaime’s House. I understand that, in all earnest, I do. I understand your wishes for revenge, I have felt that the same way myself, beating in my chest like a second heart. I understand that you want to keep your ancestral home, I understand it, I do.”

“Well?” He looks at her, waiting, the black eels pulsating over his skin to paint him darker and darker with every minute passing.

“What I _don’t_ understand is that you are willing to risk so much without at least _hearing_ the alternatives, without having sought _true_ parley only just _once_. You are risking the lives of your men, who are willing to die for you. But are they willing to die for… a construction of stone? A castle? Some of those men are no older than Podrick. And you expect them to throw their lives away without even taking into consideration what could be instead. _That_ is what I don't understand.”

_Because I made that choice once, and now that I look back, I don’t know what devil possessed me to have made that decision. I don’t understand how you can look at me and not see how I was wrong, all along._

The Blackfish looks to the side, dropping his knife with a soft chink as it hits the plate.

And it is during those moments that Brienne sees the man underneath the shadowy eels creeping across his face, when she sees the man who has a conscience, a sense of honor.

The man who had many smiles to give, as Lady Catelyn used to tell her.

“What I am trying to say is… I think you have any _right_ to… to defend your ancestral home. I think you have all rights in the world to be angry. You have any right to wish for revenge on the people who bereft you of your family, your home, everything that mattered to you. I think you have any right to do these things, to feel this way. You have that right.”

“Well, if I have any right, then where is the opposition?” he asks quietly, not meeting her gaze.

“Sometimes… we should not make use of our rights, even if we think we have them, so long lives depend on it that we consider… the alternatives.”

She made a selfish choice, because she felt she had the right.

And that brought frozen blood to Winterfell.

“I already told you, I told you just now again. Now _I_ understand that you seem to believe that your dear Kingslayer wishes to protect us. And even if I bring myself to believe in all this, that changes nothing about the circumstance that his hands, or well, his _one hand_ , is tied. There are no alternatives that mean our freedom. Our only freedom is to fight. Or to go down fighting. I will not become prisoner. I will not, I cannot. I cannot die a prisoner. I am one already,” he says, his voice now slightly shaking.

“You mean the siege,” Brienne whispers.

Lord Brynden shakes his head, his eyes glistening white where there is usually just shades of gray and black. “I _don’t_ mean the siege. We could live here for months with the Kingslayer rotting on the other side. _That_ doesn’t make me a prisoner. I am a prisoner because I sought out the alternatives once. Because I chose not to die. I ran away, back during the Red Wedding. I escaped, barely so, but I escaped. Like a bloody coward. I live the life of a prisoner for the guilt I have to shoulder for not having stayed when I should have. And that is a burden I know no one can relieve me of, because it’s my crime to my family alone, but… I cannot live such a life. That is not a life worth fighting for, not like this. I can’t become even more of a prisoner. I am one already, more than most can bear.”

Brienne bites her lower lip, her eyes stinging.

There he is, a broken man, a man who lost all hope, any prospect of a future, blinded by the past. He just sees the past neglected, not the future still ahead as black water consumes him, makes him rigid, unmoving.

“But what of your men? Do _they_ want to go down fighting? Do they want to die defending this castle? Breaking you out of your personal prison?” Brienne asks quietly, but that seems to aggravate him as he speaks more sharply, “ _My_ men are ready to follow me to the Seven Heavens or the Seven Hells, whatever destiny the Gods may choose for the likes of us. You try to tell me that I should not decide for my men, but neither should you.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“That’s what you do right at this moment,” he tells her.

“I don’t mean to. I just mean to say that… no harm is done if you have parley with Ser Jaime. I am not even talking about taking whatever it is he has to offer. But it’s a crime to your men, who I know you value highly, to not try your best to protect them by at least talking to the man willing to negotiate. You could at least hear his side, and that is what I don't understand. What do you mean to demonstrate? What will that prove?”

Other than that he is made of stone?

“That I stand in for something. That I don’t run away.”

“And there is nothing wrong with that, but I think you should stand in for your men, too, and I don’t think you stand in for them if you don’t even consider listening to the alternatives. Lord Brynden, I am not even talking about… taking a deal. I don’t say that you have to. If you can’t live with what Ser Jaime has to offer, then… I will support you within the walls of Riverrun, believe me. You can send Ser Jaime away after you talked to him, you can still raise your banners, your swords, your bows, but that parley may give you so much more than a quick death. It may offer you a _chance_ , a chance you just don’t see from _this_ side of the walls. But I have seen it, because I was outside these walls, my lord. I see it, even now,” she tells him, her voice slightly shaking.

She has to hope.

She has to have faith.

Maybe not herself, but… _Jaime_.

The Blackfish just looks at her, his expression blank.

“But staying here and waiting for them to attack, or aggravating them to make their first move… offers you no chance at all. It offers you just one alternative, you said so yourself not long ago. And I don't know what a good leader that is supposed to make you – if you can’t bring yourself to reach out to all alternatives offered to you, open to you, and _then_ make your decision, knowing all facts, having considered all options. _That_ is what I don’t understand, Lord Brynden, with all due respect.”

Back in Winterfell, she had to make a decision on the spot. There was this crossroad and Brienne had to walk this way or the other. There was no chance to do both. She couldn’t think for long, but Lord Brynden still has any chance to enter negotiations. He can find options within options.

It doesn’t have to be a crossroad, or a one-way road that he seems to see.

If only he finally saw it.

If only.

_If only._

“Careful now,” he hisses.

“I have been careful long enough. And that is something I rarely am. For all the trouble this causes me most of the time…,” she says with a crooked, sad smile, but then she searches his eyes again. “I speak to you openly, and I will not back down from that again. You are free to send me away, as you did before, if you can’t deal with it, but then you should perhaps ask yourself how thin-skinned that would make you, if you can’t bear to listen to a woman in mail taking the other side in an argument.”

She has to raise her voice.

She has to speak up now.

Or remain forever silent.

“Then what?” he spats.

 _That’s at least something_ , she thinks to herself. _Normally, he would have sent me away by now._

“I think that you owe it to yourself, to your men, to at least consider, to at least hear Ser Jaime out, and _then_ make your decision. You should see that much value in yourself and your men. And if you still disagree with him… then you do that, but then you can at least be sure that you did everything possible. So you won’t create another prison for yourself, another cage of regret.”

“And you’d fight alongside me. You’d even go down fighting alongside me, my men, if I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t bear with what the Kingslayer may have to offer,” he asks, though he doesn’t really.

“Yes, I would. I made a vow and I mean to keep it. Even if that means that I’ll die. I will,” Brienne assures him.

_If he knows that I mean to support him, then maybe…_

“Sometimes I do wonder…,” the Blackfish speaks up after a while, his tone strange.

“About what?” Brienne asks with a frown.

“You are heir to Tarth, are you not, as Lord Selwyn’s only living daughter?”

“Yes, but how does that… relate to the present situation?” she questions, wrinkling her nose.

“I just can’t help but think about your sense of duty. I am here because this is _my_ House. But what of yours? If you die defending this castle, what will become of the duty for _your_ House, _your_ family?” he asks.

“… I consider the greatest duty I can bring to my House… not to bring further dishonor to it than I already did. Because I failed, again and again, with all the Lords and Ladies I ever swore fealty to… or being the heir of Tarth in general. My record of broken betrothals is likely proof enough of that circumstance,” she huffs. “And that I wanted to join Renly’s army was not exactly what the Evenstar had in mind for his daughter, as you can imagine.”

“I never understood how he’d let you go. I’ve made his acquaintance before, but that seemed unlike him,” Lord Brynden agrees, his tone a bit lighter now.

“Well, still he did. My Father let me join Renly – because he believed in his cause, too. My House swore itself to him. Still I failed to protect Renly once it mattered. Just like I failed to protect Lady Catelyn. And now also Lady Sansa…,” she says, searching the older man’s eyes. But whenever she mentions Sansa, his eyes disappear in the shadows haunting his face.

And nothing but pain remains amidst the silence.

“So the only duty I can serve is to keep the vows I still have… because what use am I to my House presently? Dead or alive? If I were to serve my duty to my House the way it is expected of a female heir, I’d have to be a lady. I’d have to be married, I’d have to produce heirs. That’s what my family’s duty would require of me. But… I am no lady. I won’t ever be. I cannot change that circumstance, but I can change the circumstance of the honor I bring or fail to bring to my House.”

Her Father used to say that honor is something only you can give to yourself, that it is nothing granted to you. Brienne believed in that, still believes in it to this very day.

Having honor is something you can affect.

Not meeting expectations based on your looks and behavior is something that you cannot past a certain point.

For Brienne, the only way to choose duty for her House is to do it her way. And the only way she has is to honor her vows, because keeping her oaths is what she can fight for. She cannot fight for being accepted against the odds of her looks, just like she cannot fight being the ugly beast that she is.

“And I do believe my Father is aware of that… He can still have children after me. I think he reconciled himself with that fact, even if he doesn’t admit it. He never ordered me back. He could have written me a letter while in King’s Landing to return to Tarth, but he did not. So I reckon he wants me to bring honor to our House the way I have chosen, or at least accepts that I do. And that is by upholding my promises to the best of my abilities, as _he_ has taught me. So… I honor my House the best I can by fulfilling my promises. And while I have failed… _many_ of them by now, that changes nothing about my devotion to honor the ones I still have left. So yes, I will fight alongside you if need be. Because that is what my duty is, to your House and to mine.”

The Blackfish looks at her, and for a moment, Brienne dares to hope that her words get through to him at last.

“ _But_ that doesn’t prevent me from beseeching you not to risk the lives of your men without considering all alternatives, one of which may still offer us all to leave this situation with our honor intact. That is why I keep bugging you with this. That is why I can’t just stop, my lord. Honor compels me to try, till last.”

“You know, I lost my niece, my grandniece, my grandnephew… some are missing, as you also told me about Arya… some are dead, way too many are dead… It’s hard to find something to fight for when everyone you care for just dies or is lost forever.”

“I understand that. And I understand that you want to fight for your home, that this is what you put your effort into after so many loved ones were ripped away from you. I get it that you want to make this your purpose. I make my vows my purpose, so truly, you are not alone with this, my lord,” Brienne says, offering a sympathetic look, but it doesn’t seem to reach him as he suddenly seems to drift back into the shadows somewhat.

“May I ask you a question, Lady Brienne?”

“Of course.”

“What was it like, killing the man you had sworn to kill. Stannis, I mean. What did it feel like when you executed him, once you had his blood spill on the snow?”

Brienne needs a moment to gather herself.

He didn't ever ask her about that, not once. It was something that wasn’t spoken of, just like Sansa’s demise.

“What was it like avenging the man you held so very dear? The man you… loved?”

Brienne swallows.

“It gave you satisfaction, did it not? To finally kill the man who meant you so much harm, who took everything you cared for from you. It felt good, did it not?”

Brienne’s mouth opens and closes a few times, before she can bring herself to speak up, “I thought it would… I thought it would be _the_ one fulfillment of my vows, one way to give me purpose. I thought this would be it. That this would heal the wounds I felt after Renly was murdered…”

“ _But_?”

“But then I heard of what happened with Lady Sansa. And then I felt no satisfaction anymore, just hollowness and regret.”

_And those wounds won’t ever heal._

“How so?” he asks.

“It’s that I realized that… my choice of vengeance cost another person her life, a person I had sworn to protect… I realized that I had chosen the dead over living. I chose vengeance over protection. Death over life. And I regret that choice to this very day.”

Jaime had the rights of it. Killing Stannis didn’t bring Renly back to life. And in the end, it didn’t feel like justice. It stopped feeling like justice the latest when she saw the frozen blood.

“Would you regret it, had my niece not died? If she had lived? Would you feel satisfaction then?”

“I can’t say, but… I don’t believe, now looking back… I think I made a mistake, this way or another, even if I had gotten to Lady Sansa.  Because no matter what, it would have been mere chance that nothing happened to her. I didn’t keep my vow, and that is what I regret.”

She doesn’t regret having killed Stannis.

In the end, she found herself giving that man a more honorable death than he would have suffered at the hands of the Boltons.

It didn’t feel wrong, but it felt wrong to have left that other vow neglected.

“You kept your other.”

“To a dead man who won’t ever hear of it. Who won’t have any further gain from it.” Brienne shakes her head.

_I should have seen it by the crossroad back in Winterfell already, but I did not._

“Well, that’s the nature of avenging the dead, is it not?”

“I reckon so. And that is why I hope to prevent you from making the same mistake I made, by choosing vengeance over protection…,” she says, her voice slightly shaking, searching his eyes which seem to have retreated back into the shadows. “Don’t make my mistakes, and don’t repeat your own, my lord. You still have any chance to. Don’t let vengeance make you blind to the people still under your protection, or rather, the people you can still protect. Do what I failed to do back in Winterfell, my lord.”

He nods slowly, leaning back in his chair. Brienne watches him as the shadows from the walls cast odd shapes on his face, cutting it in half, breaking it into the smallest of fragments.

“I will send a raven to the Kingslayer.”

Brienne stares at him.

Is it possible that she convinced him at last?

Did the stone finally get cracks?

“Perhaps you are right… and I ought to not repeat my mistakes again,” he goes on.

Brienne knows she should be glad, but something ties her bowels into a tight knot.

“And you will have my back, you say.”

“If you want me to be present for the negotiations, I am happy to offer my services, my lord,” Brienne replies hastily.

“Good. Then let’s see what the Kingslayer has for an alternative.”

* * *

 

Jaime sits at his table, Oathkeeper set in front of him, his long fingers dancing over the scabbard without touching it.

Edmure was reluctant about writing a letter to his uncle, as was to be expected. Jaime had no illusions that the man would rather jump him than do his bidding, but the former Lord Commander could have care less when he entered the Lord’s tent that Jaime had prepared for him after the Freys forgot about any rule of proper hostage taking – though speaking from experience, that seems to run in the family. The Starks didn’t know those rules very well either, putting him in a muddy pen for months.

At first, Jaime tried it nicely once more, reminding him of his previous offer of seeing him off to the Rock if he cooperated. Edmure was having none of it, telling him that he would never trust a backstabber like the _Kingslayer_ himself, who is likely only here to get to fuck his sister again by doing her bidding.

And while Jaime could understand his sentiment from the knowledge he had, it would be a lie to say that it didn’t cut deep. Because it did. No matter what he does, no matter what bloodshed he tries to prevent, it will always be taken for an act of selfishness, backstabbing, murder, or betrayal. And the hardest part is that he can’t fault people for it – because they don’t know, because he helped cement that obelisk bearing his second name to cast a giant shadow on him.

Because truth be told, some time back, that likely would have been enough reason for Jaime, or at least he would have done a whole lot just to be with her.

But it is different now, and still he can’t say it, couldn’t say it to Edmure, and even if he could, it made no difference.

And that realization was and still is somewhat sickening.

For the smallest of moments Jaime had felt tempted to tell Edmure just how wrong he was in his assessment.

A very selfish part wanted to just scream it out that whatever illusion he dared to believe in while with his sister burst like a bubble before his eyes once he had a chat with a young lad he should have asked long time ago. Just like that very selfish part wanted to shout that he was a Kingslayer for the good of realm, because a King thought the fire would cleanse them all.

But then Jaime thought better of it once he looked Edmure in the eyes and saw the loathing, the inevitable scorn and mistrust, flowing out of those brown pools like bad blood.

And that was when he knew that it wouldn’t matter, that it wouldn’t make a difference. He had seen the eyes of someone whose mind could be changed after truth was exchanged amidst thick mist and hot water.

The eyes had been big and blue like sapphires and had shot him _that look_ until they had no more, and he had known that those eyes would see, would understand.

And they had.

But not so with Edmure.

So Jaime gave him what the man needed to be convinced.

The Kingslayer.

The Man without Honor.

The threat rolled easier from Jaime’s tongue than he dared believe possible, how he was willing to catapult the Lord’s child against the walls of Riverrun if he did not do his bidding right at this moment and wrote the letter as a first step.

His Father probably would have been proud of him.

Not that this mattered to Jaime much, or matters to him even now. It needed to be done.

If you can’t rid yourself of something, you have to make a weapon out of it.

Or as his brother used to say more than once:

_Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like an armor. Then it can never be used to hurt you._

So the choice was rather straightforward. Jaime became the person the stubborn Tully man accused him to be, and showed him that a Kingslayer left no alternatives but the ones he offered.

And suddenly, the quill was dipped into the ink, and the letters dropped on the parchment with loathing to be sure, but they were banned in the right place at last.

After that, the bird flew to Riverrun, and he is still waiting for a reply.

The conditions seem easy enough. Jaime is willing to meet the Blackfish outside, but close by the castle of Riverrun, with Edmure in tow, so long the Blackfish accepts parley with him. And if Jaime reads the goat halfway correctly, he is certain that Lord Brynden will bring his newest member along to create equal grounds.

Which only plays into Jaime’s hand, obviously.

This would leave both in a position of equal danger and security, or so Jaime reckons. He would have Edmure as a backup, and the Blackfish would likely choose Brienne for that position.

_Actually, a fair deal for someone who tries to play foul games._

Though Jaime could care less about the equal grounds so long he gets another chance to talk sense into both the old goat and the wench.

And now he has to wait for a reply, hoping that Brienne actually went ahead to come back to her senses on her own already, to talk the old man into the negotiations.

_That she is my voice after all._

And all that trouble for some oaths.

Jaime sighs as his hand dips down to make contact with the leather of the scabbard. It feels strange to have it now. He never intended to have it back.

_I wanted her to keep it. She even named it Oathkeeper. Doesn’t that imply what this sword was meant to be? Kept – by her?_

Jaime liked the thought that she would serve their shared promise with this sword, _his_ sword, his gift to her. That she did what he could not.

And even if not, because Jaime had no illusions that finding Sansa and rescuing her was difficult if not impossible at the onset, he sent her off with something to protect her well, and away from King’s Landing and its bad influence. After all, it didn’t go without his notice that his sister started to grow suspicious of her, already during Joff’s wedding.

But maybe he can return it to her once this bloody siege is over, granted that it goes down without bloodshed.

Though that still depends on her – and if he read her correctly, which is something Jaime still doubts at some point. He was so wrong about so many things, why should he be right about Brienne?

He still dares to believe that he isn’t wrong in his trust for her, against all odds, but he doesn’t trust the Blackfish. And there is no sure way to tell if she is to make her choice for that man of honor or a man without honor like him.

“Ser Jaime?” he hears a voice ring out. Jaime whips his head around to see Podrick standing in the tent, Bronn standing next to him with his smug smile in place, as always.

“Yes?”

“A raven arrived, from Riverrun,” the lad says, approaching his table. Bronn strolls in, occupying himself with rearranging some of the items set atop map table.

Jaime holds out the hand to grab the parchment, trying his best to appear calm when in fact his heart is beating so fast in his chest that it almost hurts. He opens the letter, using his golden hand to spread out the slip of paper, his eyes scanning the parchment for information.

_This is the moment…_

“What does it say?” Bronn asks.

“The Blackfish lets us know that he received our letter and that he is willing to enter negotiations with us tomorrow,” Jaime says, his eyes still fixed on the paper.

“That’s good news, right?” Pod asks hopefully.

“That is no bad news,” Jaime says, offering a small smile. “And more than I dared to hope for at this point.”

“But?”

“Tully men are reluctant men. Even if it was Brienne who finally convinced the old goat… I don’t think we should trust this too easily.”

I trust her, but not the old man. Not after he sent her out into the open like that.   
  
“And what do we do about that?”

“Backing up our interest?” Bronn says with a shrug. Podrick frowns at him.

“Is there anything I can do?” Pod asks, and it is clear that he just finally wants to have something to do – something Jaime can honestly very well understand.

“Ready the horses?” Bronn suggests.

“But… we won’t ride to the castle until tomorrow,” Podrick grimaces. “And I am not your…”

Bronn puts Pod in a headlock before the boy can even react, “You squire for her, we know, but now that your lady’s not around, but that still means you’re a squire. We might ride out anyway, so make yourself useful, will you?”

“Aye,” Pod wails, trying to break free from the choke. Bronn releases him, chuckling. With that he storms out of the tent.

“Am I the only one who has a bad feeling about all this?” Bronn asks once they are alone, putting his hands on his hips.

“Most definitely not,” Jaime huffs.

“Well, but parley is parley,” Bronn reasons. “We got what we asked for.”

“True.”

“I just hope for my own sake that you won’t do anything reckless.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You seem to be the type.”

“I am doing my best to handle this diplomatically.”

“Mhm. That you do.”

“What now?”

“I’m just saying – don’t expect me to rescue your damsel in distress for you. That is nothing you paid me for.”

“My damsel… Brienne is not,” Jaime means to say, but the sellsword cuts him off, “Sure.”

“Do I have to remind you of your position, Ser Bronn?”

“Nah, I know my spot pretty well. I just don’t like the idea to risk my life for stupid and stubborn folks the likes of you and the lady knight. So I do hope that you have something for a backup plan,” Bronn says. “Trust is something for knights, but not for men who are to negotiate.”

“I am aware. As you said, we have to back up our interest.”

“Even if that means to move against the lady knight?”

Jaime bites the inside of his cheek.

“What will become necessary will be done.”

“Good. Then I will see if Pod learned to ready the horses correctly by now,” Bronn snorts, hooking his thumbs into the loops of his belt. “For the ride later on.”

“You do that,” Jaime nods. Bronn nods before he turns around, whistling.

Jaime’s hand tightens around Oathkeeper as he draws in a long breath.

He will do what is necessary, even if she will hate him for it.

Jaime tilts his head up to see Bronn still standing in the tent, only a step from the exit, studying him as he now has Oathkeeper in his hand.

“What?” Jaime demands. Bronn just shrugs at him with a smile.

“Don’t say anything.”

“Anything.”

And with that, the sellsword is gone. Jaime lets out a small growl, his grip tightening around the scabbard.

The next morning cannot come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I left the trebuchet threat in a passive voice, but I didn't feel like making it a whole scene, just like I obviously change the conditions at first sight here. I was very uncertain about that part, so if it's a bit rocky right there... that's where it's coming from. 
> 
> I just wanted to keep the aspect of Jaime starting to use his awful reputation to get the *right* things achieved. 
> 
> Since I am really typing that up as the JB Week proceeds, I hope this will pan out in the end. If not... I will go on sobbing in a corner. But oh well. ;)


	5. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and the Blackfish meet outside Riverrun. 
> 
> More people are present. 
> 
> Will they have to betray their oaths?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around - and sorry that I didn't make it within the week. It was a bit of a mess. 
> 
> I hope you'll like the next chapter anyway. That is one I was most uncertain about, so... be gentle with me. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Jaime lets a sigh as he dismounts his white horse, straightening his armor, which feels surprisingly more tightly fit to his body than it did the last couple of days.

That still doesn't offer much of a comfort in this whole mess, however.

He just hopes this goes down without further trouble.

Though Jaime has no illusions about it.

There is always trouble.

_Always._

“Lord Edmure?” he turns to the Tully man he _convinced_ of coming along. Edmure looks better now that he is fed and properly clothed, but he still looks more like an eel than a trout. “Are you ready to do your part?”

“Do I have a choice?” Edmure asks solemnly.

“What do you think, my lord?” Jaime snaps, making the other man cringe.

_It’s better that way._

Edmure is not supposed to get the impression that Jaime has intention to move out of his way. The Lord of Riverrun has a job to do, the job Jaime wants him to do, easy as that.

If he has to make him cringe away from him in fear, then so be it. Jaime could care less about what Edmure Tully thinks of him.

“We should just go,” the other man says, bowing his head.

“Exactly,” Jaime agrees, his voice dark. “Podrick, be so kind to offer Lord Edmure a hand.”

Podrick nods, grabbing the Lord in the back. Edmure grumbles something to himself, but chooses not to comment as he lets Podrick guide him towards the drawbridge.

_Better for him, too._

Jaime walks ahead, the Tully man tagging closely after him, Podrick nervously glancing around. Before riding out to the outside of Riverrun’s castle, Jaime had the Frey brothers ordered to his tent to inform them how he meant to negotiate the terms, and that he would personally see to it that they would try out Lord Edmure’s _chamber_ and _meal_ for as long as he was in their _care_ , if they dared disobey him. Gladly, the Freys are even easier to convince than Edmure.

So now they look on sourly as Jaime strides to the grand gate of Riverrun, but stay their place – behind. _As they are in mind…_

Jaime glances up the massive gate. It truly is impressive.

Though he could care less about that castle than what is inside it.

He can see the Tully men at the top, flitting from one corner to the other as they seemingly get their orders. While he can spot some weapons raised, Jaime knows that he has thrice as many in his back, with the Lannister and Frey forces, so they would be truly foolish to attack without prelude. Some move, some stay, and then the gate starts to roll down slowly.

_This is the moment._

Jaime tilts his head as the gate comes down to reveal two figures approaching out of the shadows.

Blue instantly seems to find him as Brienne’s eyes meet his. Jaime can do nothing much but grimace at her.

_Now is not the time for smiles._

Her gaze wanders around, but then fixates a bit further down his armor.

_Good. You see it, don’t you, Brienne?_

“Kingslayer,” the Blackfish greets him once they meet somewhere in the middle.  

“Lord Brynden,” Jaime offers a lazy smile that means nothing, but then turns his attention away from him. “Brienne.”

Her eyes flicker at him for a moment, but then lock on her squire, who is having his grip on the true Lord of Riverrun.  

_Of course._

“Edmure,” the Blackfish grimaces at his nephew, his eyes cold and filled with nothing but disappointment.

At some point he does remind him of his father right at this moment, Jaime can’t help but think.

“Uncle,” Edmure brings out.

“It’s nice that we all could get acquainted,” Jaime says, flashing another faux smile.

“What is Podrick doing here?” Brienne can’t help but ask. She had hoped that Jaime understood that she wanted to know him safe.

And now he brings him to the front of Riverrun?

“Podrick insisted to be present, did you not?” Jaime replies in an easy voice.

“Yes, Ser,” the lad says, before he shifts his gaze to Brienne. “I wished to be here, m’lady.”

Brienne bites her lower lip, her heart inevitably beating faster.

Truly nothing goes as she had it planned.

_What if… if I fail again? Then he will… they will…_

“Are we done talking about your squire, then?” the Blackfish huffs. Jaime is honestly surprised to see that Brienne does nothing much but bow her head, muttering an apology.

Though it only shows him how deep the guilt still cuts.

Normally, she wouldn’t hear any sort of objection from the man, no matter his rank, so long it was about the people she wants to see protected.

But that is what wounds will do with you.

“So, I take it that you received my letter, for which I am glad, Lord Brynden. I already feared that you had no interest in me at all,” Jaime goes on, drawing the attention back to himself.

From the corner of his eye he can see Brienne’s gaze shifting to him.

Didn’t she know of the letter?

Though it makes no difference now.

All of that will have to wait until later.

“Oh, I do have interest. To come face to face with the man who promised my niece to bring her daughters back to her. As it appears… that didn’t go so well, did it?” the Blackfish says, his voice as cold as ice. "Or is it just that you betrayed that promise the moment on you set foot on your home?"

“Sadly I did not succeed,” Jaime replies, purposely keeping his voice mild, but strong enough not to give the man any ideas that he can talk him into feeling guilty for something. "The circumstances left me unable to do anything much. But you can believe me, what was within my powers, I tried. I did not forget the vow I made."

Jaime has an agenda to follow through, and that is all that matters at this moment.

And his only true weapons at this point are his mind and his tongue.

Wherever the small bastard is hiding now, Jaime imagines that if Tyrion were to know, he’d laugh so hard that he'd likely topple over to see his brother having to use the weapons that used to be the dwarf’s alone.

“Well, it’s good to finally get a good measure of you, free of your chains,” Brynden goes on, studying Jaime from head to toe. “At first I didn’t even recognize you, as fancy as you are now, in your brand new armor.”

Jaime sucks the inside of his cheek into his mouth, but chooses not to comment.

_He wants to provoke me. Well, good luck with that, Lord Brynden. You’d have to do much more to coax a reaction like that out of me. It’s not my hotheaded sister you are talking to._

“So, you said that you have an offer for me, Kingslayer. I’d say we should just get down to business.”

“Oh, by any means,” Jaime agrees, offering yet another empty half-smile.

He’d rather have this over and dealt with… yesterday.

“Well?” the Blackfish cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I suppose I am correct in my assessment that you don’t want to move away from your initial… shall I say _request_?” Jaime asks.

“What do you think?” the Blackfish asks, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Well… I hope that I made clear before that it is not up to debate that I will surrender the castle to you. That is the one option not available to me.”

“I already feared that you were going to say that.”

Brienne bites her lower lip.

Yesterday, he seemed more convinced of negotiations, but now? She hears the same words she has listened to for days and weeks.

What happened to the resolve she spotted, glancing at her out of the shadows?

Why does she see the eels again?

The invisible cracks in his face?

“But that doesn’t mean I turn up empty-handed,” Jaime argues.

“That I can see,” the Blackfish huffs, looking at Edmure with a sour expression. “You even tied the present up in a bundle.”

“One cannot be careful enough in times of war. I think that is something you understand very well, perhaps better than most. Aren’t we always just backing up our interest?” Jaime asks, his gaze briefly shifting to Brienne, who returns the glance for a longer moment this time.

_Backing up interest?_

Brienne can’t help but frown.

_Just what did Jaime write in his letter to the Blackfish?_

She knows that Jaime thinks that Lord Brynden his using her, but… something is odd about that whole set-up. Why didn’t he tell her about that letter?

“Of course.”

“Don't get me wrong. I understand that you want to keep the castle,” Jaime goes on.

“Now, _that_ sounds familiar,” the Blackfish says, shooting a glance over to Brienne. “It’s almost funny that all seem to _understand_ me so well.”

Brienne licks her lips.

 _That is because we both do, she wants to say_ , but doesn’t. _That is because we both agree on these matters._

_We think alike…_

“I understand your wishes, but I also see the many men behind the walls of Riverrun, who will fall victim to a siege if it unfolds. You will lose your men. I will lose some of my men. So I ask you, where is the sense in all that bloodshed if we can… prevent that from happening right from the start?”

“Well, you tell me, Kingslayer… or should I say _Lord Lannister_ now? What was the sense in the bloodshed when he,” he turns to Edmure, “took his bride by the Twins? When they opened my niece’s throat? Stabbed my nephew? Slaughtered his wife and their unborn child? Sewed his direwolf’s head to his chest. Paraded their bodies through the streets….”

His voice betrays him, growing so faint towards the end that one can hardly hear it.

Really, all of this would be easier if Jaime could just give that old, bitter goat what he wants. That man just wants to die in a castle, so let him, but… that’s not up to him to say.

“As tragic as this event was, the Red Wedding is not my concern here today.”

That man seemingly lives in the past, and while Jaime can relate to that on some level, he shall be damned if he lets him make his mistake as well.

_There is a future, old man. You just have to let me show you the way._

“But it is mine.”

“I cannot undo what happened.”

“You mean _what your family did to mine_.”

Deep down, Jaime knew that this would come. The man is just looking for a way to confront the family that did his so much harm.

He wants to attack his father, his sister, his brother… and him, but foremost House Lannister itself. 

Revenge is one nasty poison that consumes you until nothing remains of you but a hollow shell. 

“Call it however you like. I can’t go back in time and change the circumstances, my lord. But I repeat it once more, I am not here to discuss the events of the Red Wedding. I am not here to talk about past wrongs, past mistakes, past evils.”

_I am talking about the future._

“What of past debts?” the Blackfish huffs. “I thought a Lannister always pays his debts, as you like to say.”

“We try our best. And since I mean to pay my part of the debt, I have not given any order to march on the castle, as I could have done the first day I arrived if I had the intention,” Jaime informs him coolly.

“Right. The Seven may bless you for your mercy.”

“This was no act of mercy. This was an act of rationality. I don’t want to fight you unless you make me, Lord Brynden. I cannot and I will not surrender the castle to you, but I am offering you and your men protection by my family as you leave the castle, since I have apparently assumed that role, so that the Freys will not get their hands on you or your men in any way.”

The Blackfish turns to Brienne with a bitter smile. “Didn’t I say it, Lady Brienne? That’s the best he can do – make us prisoners to the Rock instead of the Twins.”

“That is not out yet,” Brienne argues feebly, her eyes briefly flashing to Jaime.

And there is hope there. Jaime can see it.

_She believes in me after all…_

Jaime makes sure to keep his expression almost empty, though he would rather flash a small smile at the affirmation that Brienne was his voice inside the walls of Riverrun after all.

“Indeed,” he agrees. “I was not finished yet.”

“I start to be fed up with it, however,” the Blackfish says.

“My lord, you said you were willing to hear his side,” Brienne tries another time. Brynden mutters something to himself, but then searches Jaime’s eyes again, wordlessly telling him to go on.

“Well, I could wrap this in fancier words, but that would change nothing about the content, I believe,” Jaime says, unimpressed. “The content, however is the following: Yes, the Crown would consider you my prisoners, but it is within my capabilities to make sure that you are not given over to the Freys and that you will have it… by far better so long you _stay with me_.”

His eyes turn to Brienne briefly.

_Stay with me._

Brienne lets the words echo through her mind.

_If only I…_

“A golden cage instead of an iron one. How fancy.”

“You would enjoy considerable freedoms, most of which are… _up to debate_ , granted that you are willing to negotiate further – _outside the castle_. I seem to feel a bit anxious with so many men around who are… not us,” Jaime says, selecting his words carefully. “Needless to mention that the Freys are not particularly pleased about what I propose in the first place, so I don't think it would harm to leave them unaware. They get so easily upset."

He cannot say it out in the open, not so long the Freys are there. While they are further in the back, there is no way he can give them the impression that he is giving the Blackfish credit or reward.

Neither is Jaime willing to.

He can and will only hand out what he has to offer.

No empty promises.

“So you put me in chains first, and then you tell me how wonderful those chains are? Do you take me for a fool, Kingslayer?”

“I do take you for a fool for not hearing me out when really you _should_ ,” Jaime says. “Because I am perhaps the only… _support_ you have on this side of the wall. I am the only person standing between you and the combined Lannister-Frey forces.”

“ _Support_. From the man who has his army ready to attack, and doesn’t even have the decency to conceal his threat.”

“As do you. I am just creating equal grounds, Lord Brynden.”

Did the old man really expect Jaime to not take any measurements? Did he think he’d leave his armies far in the back and come alone?

“If you think I’m afraid of a siege, however long, you are mistaken. We can drag this out long enough until you give up due to starvation,” the Blackfish tells him. “We can last for months. How much time do you have? Until you are called back… by your sister, is it? The Crown? Until your men feel the hunger in their bones, nagging on their mind? I do wonder what your men will eat after some time. Perhaps they will eat the Freys and the Freys will eat the Lannisters? That would most certainly solve _my_ problems.”

“I can have them eat tree bark if I must. And if we come down on you and your little castle in a siege, be sure we won’t just sweep against the walls like a small wave. If we come down on you, we’ll come down like a storm,” Jaime tells him. “My lord.”

Brienne stares at him.

_This is not good, posing threats like that._

“Are you trying to intimidate me? Because it’s not working, Kingslayer.”

“I am making you aware of the consequences that your choice entail, my lord. This choice means death and bloodshed.”

_A Red Wedding without a wedding._

“And your choice means imprisonment and dishonor, my ancestral home in the hands of traitors, and having to crawl to the feet of the man whose family slaughtered mine. At some point I am inclined to believe that… perhaps the choice I seem to favor bears less… _consequence_.”

“Not for your men.”

“It’s a true relief to know that you are _so_ concerned for my men.”

“And it is startling to see how you are seemingly not.”

“Careful now,” the Blackfish growls.

“My lord,” Brienne jumps in. “Perhaps we should…”

“I am negotiating, as _you_ asked of me.”

“Lord Brynden,” Jaime speaks up, pulling the focus of the old man back to himself. “Perchance you should listen to your advisor.”

“Right. At some point I don't know if she isn’t yours in disguise.”

“My lord,” Brienne gapes at him, but Jaime doesn’t let this go further, drawing the attention back to himself. “Maybe I should ask the other way around. What do _you_ think would be a good agreement, satisfactory for both sides, Lord Brynden?”

“That all just live in their castles and leave each other in peace?” he huffs. 

“While that would be my most favored option, personally, I think we are both aware that this is not possible under the current circumstances.”

“It is possible if we win the siege," the Blackfish argues. "Then the Freys can go back to the Twins, and you can sit on your Rock."

“Just that you will not win it. You will lose. And your men will lose their lives for it.”

“So the only thing you can offer me is that I will be your prisoner instead of that of… I always forget the names of Walder’s spawns.”

“Most would think it a great fortune to be prevented from being prisoner to the Freys. I think Lord Edmure can say that much from experience.”

“Uncle, I…,” Edmure means to say, but the Blackfish simply interrupts him, “Will you convince me of the man’s offer now, too? Just how can you stand up straight, you tell me? Without a backbone? You betray the name you carry, nephew.”

“I do what is necessary to ensure survival, Uncle," Edmure says, grimacing. "I value my life, and that of the men inside the castle, too, believe it or not. I don't want to hang only just to... prove my stubborn nature to the rest of the world."

“Hm, you tell that yourself," the Blackfish huffs, unimpressed. "You turned out as one fine lapdog for the Lannisters, I must say."

"I am not," Edmure insists. "I just see that we will lose this fight, Uncle. So I ask you not to pick it, for everyone's sake."

"What did he offer you to say that?"

"Nothing," Edmure says. "He just... pointed out the... consequences to me."

“In any case, Lord Brynden. You are free to be my guest. I am much more willing to negotiate the terms in a more private setting than this one. Especially since I believe it to be in both our interest to put this down on paper, to make this a more solid agreement.”

_And with fewer Freys complicating matters… C’mon, it can’t be that difficult, old goat._

“ _Private_? You mean in a Lannister tent, short before the _Rains of Castamere_ starts to play?” the older man snarled.

“I am not here to kill you, Lord Brynden, or else you would be dead by now. I am here to ensure that the Freys get Riverrun. I made it _my_ personal concern to further ensure that this goes down with as little bloodshed as possible. I am not asking you to come to the Lannister camps. That would be folly.”

“Well, don’t you want to be inside Riverrun then?” the Blackfish mocks him. “And _be **my** guest_?”

“You know the answer to that one. I think that it’s in both our interest that we do not have such negotiations in a situation so… _charged_ … in either one’s camp. That’d give the other party way too much advantage. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“Why not say what you want straight away?” the older man asks wearily.

“It’s not about what I want, it’s about what I have to offer.”

_Why don’t you see that I can’t just **openly** proclaim my offer to you, you old fool? _

“So far I have only heard of you that if I give up, the best I can get is imprisonment for wanting to stay in my ancestral home, same being true for my men, of whom I know that none fancy being held prisoner.”

“There are different kinds of imprisonment. It’s what the _Crown_ will consider it, but it doesn’t have to be a prison for you, Lord Brynden. I can make sure of that.”

Jaime’s eyes travel over to Brienne briefly, trying to read her sapphire blue gaze cutting right through him even now.

He grabs the pommel of the sword around his waist for emphasis.

Brienne’s eyes flicker at him.

_He brought it along._

_Why did he bring it along?_

_Did he… does he…?_

“So you are telling me that… the best I can get is that we lose our home, become prisoners, and that I have to bend my knee and kiss your ass for the mercy you grant us?”

“No one asks you to kneel, Lord Brynden. As I said, I suggest that you surrender the castle to save yourself your honor and dignity.”

“You wouldn’t even know what honor is if it bit you in the ass.”

“Call it however you like, if you take the deal I propose to you, you can leave this castle with your head held high, without chains, without my men bringing you out by force. You will be brought into my camps, and the Freys will be out of your way the whole time. Your men will get food and everything they need.”

“What we need is…”

“Not the castle, that is the one thing you cannot ask of me,” Jaime cuts him off.

Small wonder that Brienne had such a hard time talking sense into that man. _He is even more stubborn than her!_

“And here I believed for a moment that the woman had spoken truly about you.”

“What do you mean to imply?”

“She was so full of praise for you… the old fool I seem to be, I thought that maybe I was wrong about you, _Lord Lannister_. That perhaps you were a man of honor after all. But a man of honor would never propose such a thing, with a smug grin to top it all.”

“Well, I rather propose such a plan, even at the risk of appearing dishonorable in the eyes of men like you than risk the lives of thousands only to keep my honor intact.”

Honor shall be damned.

Jaime long since resigned himself to the fate of being called Kingslayer.

That is the destiny he chose for himself.

He cannot wash his hands clean of Aerys’ blood. He will forever be known as the man without honor everyone takes him for.

_Everyone but Brienne…_

But Jaime is not here to restore his esteem to the likes of the Blackfish or anyone else for the matter. He is here to do the right thing, honorable or not, with the means he has available, honorable or not.

If it means to betray, then so he will.

“Is that what you tell yourself when you can’t sleep as the guilt wears you down?”

“I sleep fair and sound, too kind of you to ask,” Jaime replies bluntly.

“Lord Brynden, I really think that we should take the deal,” Brienne urges him another time.

Jaime means to protect them all, she is sure of it.

“And why would you think that?” the Blackfish asks.

“I trust Ser Jaime that he would never do something to endanger us,” she says.

_I trust you, I do._

Jaime looks at her for a moment, the memories flooding back into him, hidden behind thick mist of a bath that had freed him, removed the seal from his tongue, so the truths long since hidden inside his heart rolled out, seeped into the water along with the blood and grime of the voyage to Harrenhal.

_I trust you._

He’d meant it already back then, even when he hated to mean it.

_You need trust to have a truce._

They reached the truce long time ago, having overcome so many hardships together, having pulled the other along when they were short before giving in, but this is the first time he hears her say the words he gave to her, the words he hoped had reached her, made her believe – in him.

“I won’t bend the knee to the Lannisters.”

“As I said…”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he snaps at Jaime, turning back to Brienne. “That is exactly what I told you, my lady. I won’t accept imprisonment. I told you, I cannot.”

“But Ser Jaime mentioned…”

“If you are that eager, you might just as well stand on his side," the Blackfish snarls. 

“My lord, I am trying to advise you,” Brienne argues.

_I am trying to have your back, if only you’d let me._

“And I am telling you that this is no deal I can agree to. That is not honorable, and you know it. There is no honor in imprisonment.”

“Neither is it in a senseless death,” she argues.

“Senseless death?” he repeats, anguish and cold fury washing over his features like swamp water.

“As Lady Brienne already pointed out, there are certain conditions that I am willing to apply to your case, Lord Brynden. _Very much_ in _your_ favor, I may add.”

“And what condition leaves me in my castle?”

“None. And that won’t change,” Jaime says. “Especially since this is, by rights, not your castle.”

“The Freys will have to take it from me before they can claim it.”

“I am talking about your nephew. This may be your men, but the castle belongs to the son of Hoster Tully,” Jaime points out to him. “But suffice to say that the conditions I am meaning to offer to you, through negotiations with Lord Edmure, are truly beneficial to you.”

“You should believe him, Uncle. That is the best we can get."

“You think I believe in the words of a man who has a sword to his back at all times? Furthermore, you still fail to mention just how that is supposed to be in my favor.”

“I already told you that I do not wish the news to carry over to… the outside of this circle of people at present. Suffice to say that I mean to assign a new purpose to you and your men.”

“So now you think you can buy me and employ me? At some point I really don’t know what devil must have possessed me. The likes of you seems to think that all can be bought with the right amount of gold, but let me tell you, Lord Lannister, not all things are up for purchase,” the Blackfish says. “You can’t buy honor. You can’t buy the freedom of my men. Some things just cannot be bought, but have to be earned.”

“I don’t mean to…,” Jaime exhales, but the older man is having none of it, “I think I heard enough.”

“Lord Brynden.”

“You think we are bound to lose. And that is what I already disagree with. I know my men. They are good. Strong. Endurable. Loyal. And there is Riverrun, my home, walls so thick that they withhold any storm. But even if not… maybe you are right, Kingslayer. Perhaps we are meant to lose this battle. But then I rather go down fighting against the Houses that destroyed mine than bend my knee to them. I would betray everything I believe in. Sometimes... the principles matter more."

“You will lose,” Jaime warns him.  

_I don’t want to fight you, just how hard is that to comprehend?_

“But I will lose something entirely else than what you seem to have in mind.”

Jaime shoots a glance at Edmure.

_Make yourself useful already!_

“Uncle!”

“What do you want to add now? Or will you just repeat what the puppet master here told you through the strings?”

“We should agree to the offer he makes. I heard the offer, it’s a good one. Not the best, but good. It means life, Uncle. Listen to him.”

“And _that_ convinces me ever the more that I have no business here anymore,” the Blackfish says, shaking his head. “I got a measure of you now, Lord Lannister, and I can only say that I am disappointed.”

“Lord Brynden, if you leave now, I will have no choice but to lay siege to the castle,” Jaime warns him.

“Then bring it on, Kingslayer,” the Blackfish says. “This castle held off some many enemies. You are not the first one who’ll have a hard time, biting into the stones of our walls. And wouldn’t it be sweet if entire Riverrun came down if we were to lose? Then Walder could claim stakes on that pile of rubble.”

“My lord,” Brienne tries once more, but deep down she knows that he slipped out of her gloved hands.

The flicker of hope is gone.

Only shadows remained, eels creeping over his face.

“Go back inside now,” the Blackfish says, turning his attention to Brienne. “We are done here.”

“But… I thought we would…”

“I am done. I did as you bid me. I considered the alternatives, and none of them prove to be enough for me. So if you meant what you said, you will not disobey me again. Now go.”

Jaime grimaces.

Where does the urgency come from?

“Brienne?” he speaks up quickly.

_If I don’t convince her now, then…_

She looks at Jaime, blinking.

“Are you sure you want to stay here?” he asks, his voice leveled, almost too soft to be true.

He left his anger in the tents, his disappointment, he left everything underneath the maps and empty pages.

Jaime knows now that if he wants his words to reach her, those are the tones that cannot form his voice, or else she will remain deaf to his words.

But they have to reach her.

_Have to._

“What?” she gapes at him.

“You have a choice,” he tells her.

_I know you think you don’t have it, I know it now, but you have. You just have to make it._

After conversation with Podrick, Jaime grew more and more conscious of the fact that Brienne simply saw no longer any alternatives available to her. She thought there was nothing she could do anymore. That she left the sword to owe him as little debt as possible. She didn’t want to accept his help because that would have been another debt she would have owed him, or so she would have thought.

Perhaps she even brought herself to believe that he meant it, but didn’t feel like she was granted to take it. as though she wasn’t allowed to accept his help because of the guilt wearing her down, closing her eyes to the plain truth that he meant it, even in anger.

“What are you trying, Kingslayer?” the Blackfish demands.

“I thought you were done talking to me, Lord Brynden?” Jaime quips. "A few minutes ago, you told her that she could go if it pleased her? Twice, I believe."

“I made a vow,” she says.

She bent the knee.

She meant it.

Sealed it with tears.

_I brought you so much harm. Even now I failed to convince the Blackfish of your words._

_I failed, again._

_As always._

“If you want to leave, you can just leave,” Jaime tells her.

_You can come with me._

_You hear me?_

_You can stay with me, if you liked._

“That’s not how vows work,” she argues, shaking her head stiffly.

Because a part of her wants to take that step forward instead of the three steps back.

But the other part wants to protect the man she still hopes she can save.

The man she owes a debt.

She owes him to stay – with him, his men, within this castle, doesn’t she?

And even if not… she owes it to Jaime.

“You made a vow to me, too, did you not?” Jaime argues. Brienne swallows thickly.

_"I will find her, for Lady Catelyn… and for you."_

The words seem so far away these days, the pictures, the memories.

But she cannot fulfill that vow anymore. What is he saying?

“You can choose the vow you want to honor, Brienne,” Jaime goes on. 

_You can choose the person you vow to._

_You can choose..._

“Are you done yet?” the Blackfish demands. “Or do you expect me to bring my men out so you can talk them out of the castle with sweet words?”

“If you want to go, I will take you to the camps. You will be safe there,” Jaime says, ignoring him, only seeing her – and she sees only him.

It’s the same words, but apparently in a different tone, a different language, she recalls.

No hatred, just… _care_?

“Brienne?”

_If only I could…_

_If only…_

“… My place is here, Ser,” Brienne replies stiffly.

_I want to, but I cannot. I cannot. No, just no. It may be a lost cause, but I can’t give up on that man. I can save him. I have to save him, too._

_Not just for myself, but also for you._

_Why else would you be here, if not for his sake?_

_You mean to keep your oath as well._

_So it is also up to me to help you keep it._

“You are sure?” Jaime asks.

_I am here for you as well, woman, why don’t you see that?_

“Yes. That is what I am to do. I made a vow – to him. And I mean to keep it.”

“That is what you want?”

“Yes.”

“You heard her,” the Blackfish grunts. “Lady Brienne, now go back into the castle. We have a fight to prepare for.”

“Lord Brynden. I beseech you one last time – it doesn’t have to end this way," Jaime tries another time, hoping that his voice does not betray him as fright rises in him. 

“That is the only alternative for me,” the Blackfish says. “There is just one ending for me. And it’s not the one you propose.”

“That’s what I thought. Family blood is so much thicker than other people’s blood, aye?”

“Coming from you of all people?” Brynden snorts. "Kingslayer?"

“Your House word revolves around family, not mine. We _roar_ ,” Jaime corrects him.

“As I’ve heard, your family rather revolves in its very own circles.”

“Aw, such vile rumors.”

In fact not.

But they are dead now.

“Then this is how it ends.”

“You won’t have me begging, my lord, sorry to disappoint you.”

“You begging would perchance be the only thing that would have not disappointed in you.”

The Blackfish turns away and starts to walk back over the bridge. Brienne hesitates for a moment, biting her lower lip. Jaime studies her movements, her gestures.

He can see the struggle. 

_Just why don't you give in for once?_

_Just why can’t you ever yield?_

“Brienne…”

“I… I'm sorry… I… please, look after Podrick. And… I am… I am truly sorry. I… I will talk to him another time, it’s… if you wait a bit longer, then maybe I can... Goodbye, Ser Jaime,” Brienne mutters in a hurry, the words tumbling out of her mouth almost uncontrollably.

_This is the last time we will…_

_After that we will…_

_We might..._

How did future disappear so fast? How did it get swallowed by the past all so suddenly?

Brienne can feel her heart almost beating outside her chest, a burning pain that spreads throughout her entire body like a greedy flame.

She turns around abruptly to walk after the Blackfish, her footsteps dragging, as though she is forcing her own body into movement. It looks strangely familiar to how it was like when she’s tagged after him, Jaime can’t help but think.

Just that this time it seems that she is the one in chains, on a leash.

The Blackfish bows down, fixing something about his boot. Jaime tilts his head when the wench turns around abruptly, seemingly using the moment Blackfish doesn’t see… bowing to Jaime once, her eyes fixed on his, attached to his this whole time.

_Thank you, for trying to save me._

_For finding me worthy, against all odds._

_For caring despite the pain I caused you._

_Despite the debt I will always owe you._

Brienne purses her lips as she straightens back up. He accepted Oathkeeper, as he showed her by wearing it today. He will value his vows. And if she is correct in her predictions, his army will take over soon enough.

_He will be safe, too._

The thought calms her weary heart somewhat.

_You will be safe._

_You will live._

_I couldn’t bear the thought that you…_

She turns her head to the side. It's not the time.

_It will never be..._

Jaime lets out a small growl.

 _The Seven shall be damned, that woman, really_ , Jaime thinks to himself bitterly.

Brienne turns on the heel again to walk away from him once more.

Jaime catches too late that Blackfish seemingly used the moment of distraction to retrieve something from underneath the drawbridge.

And suddenly there is the sound of an arrow being sent flying as the Blackfish lets go of the bow’s string.

He should have seen that coming, Jaime is sure of that, but at some point he didn’t expect the Blackfish himself to pull that off after they backed up their interest… timing is apparently more important than he thought.

The world turns slower all of a sudden, seemingly having grown weary and tried of the bloodshed, the pain, the death, the inevitable.

So much to him succeeding.

So much to him saving them.

 _Her_.

He failed all over.

Betrayed the promise he made to himself, that he would succeed at last.

Jaime can hear Brienne shout something, probably his name.

He edges to the side as fast as his muscles allow, hoping to somehow get away with a wound that won’t kill him, though he reckons the Blackfish's aim will be dead-on. 

Jaime prepares himself for the pain, for drifting away.

Only… not to feel the arrow biting its way into his skin, his flesh.

Only not to feel the pain he’s mentally braced himself for.

Only to… feel it outside his body, gaping like an open wound.

Jaime blinks, the wench suddenly solidly in front of Blackfish, twisted to the side in a queer pose…

Jaime watches with horror as Brienne tumbles back and crashes to the ground, the arrow intended for him sticking out of her body, out of her side – the one part of the armor penetrable.

She must have turned around, her arm shooting up as she meant to gesture at Brynden to stop, only to expose that stretch of body without armor to protect it, shield it.

_"I hope I got your measurements right."_

The Blackfish probably aims again. Not that Jaime looks or even bothers to care to look at the old man.

He backed up his interest, or the remains of it.

Jaime can already hear Bronn’s arrow whooshing from below the bridge, where they had put the boat Podrick had used for his escape. The arrow flies and doesn’t miss its target either, solidly colliding with the man’s shoulder, sending him tumbling to the ground.

As he was told, Podrick rushes forward and grabs the old man, the dagger he used to have to Edmure’s back now at Brynden’s throat.

The archers already seem to take their aim at them.

“NOW!” Jaime yells at Edmure, his voice so raw and feral that it has the other man jump. “Or else I will catapult more than one of your family members.”

“I am Edmure Tully, rightful Lord of Riverrun. No one shoots! I order you to put down your weapons. NOW!”

The men look stunned, as they should be.

_Listen to the new voice of Riverrun._

“I surrender the castle,” he goes on. “I order you to put down your weapons and prepare to leave the castle. Your Lord orders you!”

Because that was _his_ original backup plan, in case the Blackfish did anything stupid… Though now it seems that none of that prepared him for this.

The Freys will not make their move – because apparently everything goes the way they want it to, and the Tully men seem so utterly irritated by Edmure finding a backbone that they move, if hesitantly.

But Jaime doesn’t realize much of it. It’s only a buzz in his ears, strings of color passing him by, floating all around before dispersing into thin smoke.

Jaime’s feet carry him forward as all sounds die out around him, falling to his knees next to the woman who’d never know just how much trouble she causes him.

“Brienne? Brienne!”

Jaime slides onto his knees right next to her, staring at the alien object sticking out of her body, protruding her side, her ribcage, moving up with every breath wrecking her body.

Up and down. Up and down.

Like a wave, crashing, collapsing.

“I, I didn’t… I didn’t know… he…,” she stammers between ragged breaths, her world darkening.

“Shhht, it’s alright,” he tells her, his voice no more than a murmur.

“S, sorry.”

“Don’t speak. You’ll only make the wound worse.”

“Can’t, can’t brea… brea…”

“It’s alright, we’ll get you to a healer in no time,” he assures her, trying his best to keep his voice steady. “We’ll leave the arrow where it is. I might do more damage than help if I pull it out now.”

Brienne nods shakily. Jaime props her up on his thighs in the hope that this will make it easier for her to catch her breath.

And suddenly the world stops around them, morphs into an orb, impenetrable by the outside, the shouts, Bronn calling for the healer, Edmure barking orders, Podrick sliding back with the Blackfish’s limb body in his arms.

It all just fades away behind milky, liquid glass.

“What were you thinking, doing such a reckless thing, huh?” Jaime asks, talking more to himself than anything else.

_Why did you do that?_

_Why did you risk your life?_

_Why?_

 “I… made a vow…”

“You and your vows will be the death for the both of us, I hope you know that,” he huffs sadly.

_But **what** vow? _

The one to the Blackfish?

Just why would she do such a thing?

The questions keep nagging at the back of Jaime’s head, but it all melts away right at this moment as he feels her shifting in his arms.

“WHERE IS THE DAMNED HEALER?!” he demands.

“J, Jai… I…”

“It’s alright. Don’t speak.”

Her big blue eyes, moist with unshed tears, follow his every move while the rest of her body goes limper and limper.

“I’ve to… it’s… I…”

“Seems like I get my will after all. We’ll get you back to my camp. You’ll get treated, and soon enough you can annoy me again. And then you can demand your sword back. You’ll see. You’ll see. You'll be alright.”

_You have to._

_Have to._

Brienne just keeps looking  at him as the blood bubbles out of her wound, taking her breath away. 

_He’s safe… he is alive… he is…_

“Brienne? Hey, stay awake! Brienne!”

He claps her cheek softly, but her eyes already drifted close.

His touch is warm.

And she feels so cold.

But he is warm.

 _Alive_.

_Even if it meant to betray…_

“Brienne. Stay with me. Brienne!”

Her world fades into still blackness, without dark eels or water, just darkness that tastes of iron and feels warm to the touch.

If I have to stay here, that’s fine, too.

She succumbs to the darkness engulfing her. 


	6. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a conversation with the Blackfish, but then finds himself outside a tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for the kudos, comments, and generally for sticking around. 
> 
> Yet again, greatest apologies for not having made it within the JB Week to upload daily as I had it planned, but... things weren't working out the way I wanted them, so... here we are. 
> 
> I hope you'll like this chapter. 
> 
> Much love. ♥♥♥

Jaime finds himself yet again pacing, just that now he doesn’t bother about thinking of a plan, instead, only walking circles to somehow keep going when the rest of him would rather just close its eyes to the reality that seems almost unbearable, but just almost.

The plan unfolded more or less as it should.

_Or rather, far less than it should…_

Edmure surrendered the castle, as Jaime had told him to before they rode up to the bridge. The Tully men left Riverrun without making further trouble, apparently grasping that Edmure was now the man they had to follow, especially since their self-proclaimed Lord was _not available_ to talk them into opposing the orders, writhing on the ground from the arrow Bronn had rewarded him with.

Though to Jaime’s liking, one arrow was by far not enough…

Jaime saw to it that the soldiers were brought to the Lannister camps immediately once they exited the castle, not once setting foot on Frey territory. When Walder’s sons started complaining about this not being part of the deal, Jaime told them that the deal was that they get the castle they were granted by royal decree, but that the Lannisters owe them nothing beyond that. After all, the only thing they ever did was to murder a bunch of Starks and Tullys, and break the rules of guest right, no more, no less. A castle should be far enough a reward.

One of them dared to threaten Jaime, pointing out to him that their father wouldn’t be pleased about that, to which Jaime only replied that Walder Frey was free to march on the Rock and try his luck, with an army so incapable of handling a siege that they could still overtake them even now, if he gave the order.

“Or do you sincerely believe the Tully men will take your side? We have you outnumbered by far. It will be a quick death, but it doesn’t have to be if I don't feel like it, but it doesn't have to be so long you keep your feet still and creep back into the hole you came from. Our part of the contract is fulfilled. That is all there is to it.”

With that, Jaime had marched off, and that was also the end of that discussion. Banners were raised inside Riverrun. The weapons were collected.

All armies remained intact.

Edmure is supposed to be brought to Casterly Rock to be reunited with his family once it’s time, but that is something Jaime will only let him know once the armies move out. Or else that man might get ahead of himself and start a riot after all. People get drunk on power for less, so Jaime learned. Though he is in good faith that this should work out as he had it planned. While talking some sense into the Frey sons, he also pointed out to them that they owed him a small favor.

“Since we saved you and your armies, I don’t think that your Father would dare hurt that bond now formed between House Lannister and Frey by denying me a small token of his appreciation for my effort. I wish to see Lord Edmure’s wife and son in my camps before we march. If not… I fear I will have to ride up to the Twins myself if need be, and demand my reward from him… with my army.”

Not that Jaime ever had any intention, but that was nothing they had to know.

And apparently it was something they didn’t really understand either.

A bird flew forth, a bird flew back, and he now has it on parchment that Walder Frey is willing to do such, if begrudgingly.

So if the former Lord of Riverrun keeps true to his word, he shall get a reward after all, but until then, it’s better to leave him unaware of his luck.

“My lord?” the lad from a few days back asks, peeking his head inside the tent.

“C’mon in,” Jaime sighs.

“The healer’s said I’m supposed to bring you message once the Blackfish’s well enough to talk,” the young man goes on to explain. “He’s awake and ready now, he’s said.”

“Alright.” Jaime nods. “I will be there shortly.”

“Aye.”

With that the lad is gone again. Jaime runs the fingers of his left hand over his sternum absently.

He didn’t talk to Brynden ever since the happenings by the bridge. He just ordered for the healers to bring him into his camps without further prelude to tend to his wouns, pointing out the Freys shuffling their feet like upset donkeys that he was more use to them alive than dead.

Jaime shakes his head before exiting the tent, making his way down to the Blackfish’s. He simply goes inside to find the old man propped up on a bed with furs, a thick bandage around his arm and shoulder from where the arrow had pierced him through.

Jaime notes that his face looks somewhat different from the grimace he sported while on the bridge, though he could care less, when all he wants to do is take that face and smash it against a wall.

The old man’s eyes fall on him at once and he shifts under the covers.

_Probably about to call me Kingslayer, but oh well…_

“How is she?”

That takes Jaime by surprise.

“Brienne?”

The name now hurts in his throat, as though he was trying to swallow sharp-edged stones.

“They wouldn’t tell me anything… as a hostage, of course,” Brynden explains, and if Jaime is not as rusty in reading people as he believed himself to be at times, then there is regret and anxiousness in his voice.

Maybe that Lord is not made out of stone after all.

Jaime draws closer, grabbing one of the vacant stools with his good hand to put down by the bed, sitting down slowly.

“Curious. I thought you weren’t much concerned with her safety. For all I know, sending a woman without any sort of backup into the enemy’s camps to deliver a message does not speak of utter care or wishes of protecting her from harm.”

“I knew you wouldn’t see harm done to her,” the Blackfish argues.

“But the Freys?” Jaime argues, his facial expression blank.

_Don't fool yourself, old man._

“I didn’t… know her too well until then,” he admits feebly.

“Right,” Jaime huffs.

_As if that makes a difference._

“… Just tell me if she is alive, _please_ ,” the Blackfish asks hoarsely, averting his gaze.

Jaime bites his lower lip.

“She lives… but barely so. The arrow did more damage than could be expected. It went right through the ribs… The healers are not sure if…”

He still cannot say it.

He heard it, when the healer talked to him in a hushed voice, but then Jaime went deaf, his entire body did.

The Blackfish turns his head to the side.

“What? Feeling guilt, my lord?” Jaime asks, his voice overflowing with anger and sarcasm. “It’s a little bit late for that, don’t you agree?”

“I never meant for her… I…,” he stammers.

“What now? You shot by accident?” Jaime huffs.

“I didn’t mean to hit _her_. She was out of the way, I thought. I told her to go back inside… I had aimed at…”

“ _Me_ … You _are_ aware that it’s not the smartest thing to tell that to the man whose mercy you have to rely on right at this moment?” Jaime asks coolly. The Blackfish looks at him, letting out a shaky breath.

_You better shiver in fear, old man._

“I could now try to act like that’s not so, but it’s the truth. I wanted you dead.”

“I must grant you that much, guts you have.”

“For all the good it did me over the years… I thought I’d be fast enough with the bow, thought she wouldn’t even get to raise her voice before it happened, but the woman has reflexes.” He shakes his head.

“Yeah, she’s fast when she has to be.”

And too fast when she shouldn’t be.

“So… you tell me, did you ever have any intention of entering negotiations with me? Or was it all just a farce to have me by the drawbridge to take a shot at me? I’d just like to know.”

“I wanted to listen. I tried, believe it or not… but… then I heard nothing but the screams of my family as they were slaughtered as you went on talking.”

“Well, that bow didn’t get there on its own, so I have a hard time believing that this was born out of the moment.”

“I don’t deny that I didn’t have the plan in mind, or that I was willing to follow through with it,” Brynden admits. “But I still wanted to listen, at first… Gods be good, her Father will probably want my head for this. And I couldn’t begrudge him. His daughter…”

It's odd, really, it seems as though that man just awoke from a very deep slumber.

“Lord Selwyn? Might be. I mean, I don’t know him well, but he is devoted to his one daughter for sure.”

_Ever the more a reason why you are a giant pain in the ass._

_She is a lady, nobly born, and you make her pawn for your own bloody games._

But then Jaime restrains himself from thinking further – because as sad as it is, is it not that he thought about that when he sent her out to find Sansa, right? Sure, he did it to know Brienne safe, after he saw Cersei talking to her, but Jaime, too, let her go off on her own, despite her status, despite her worth, into the danger, with a sword and an armor that had a weak spot after all.

 _Me_.

So much to how he protected her in that regard.

_Or at all._

“I know him from the former days. An honorable man. A good man. His daughter is way too much like him. I saw it the moment she flashed her big blue eyes at me – just like his, too. She most definitely inherited his sense of honor and the stubbornness along with it.”

“Am I right in assuming that your wish to kill me was meant to break all hell loose so that the siege would begin? Or was it really just your utter wish to see me dead?”

He says nothing.

“Lord Brynden.”

“I don’t have to…”

“ _You have to_. You owe me all the answers to the questions I ask you. You make a mistake if you believe that I treat you kindly. I treat you as it is required by the rules of proper imprisonment for a man your rank, and to bypass that your men do anything stupid, if they were to learn that I wouldn’t treat you well enough, or just killed you – against my utter wish to do just that. And if it weren’t for Brienne’s sake, you likely would have found yourself in a muddy pen instead of a cozy bed with furs. You are to be at my service. So, answer the questions. Or else we will have it arranged that your chamber will be out in the open, perhaps in the Frey camps for them to take a good look at you,” Jaime tells him in a dark voice, overflowing with cold-burning fury. “Or spit on you… if not worse.”

The Blackfish grimaces, knitting his eyebrows.

“So? I am waiting.”

_And my patience wore thin long ago._

“I wanted to go down fighting. With my men by my side. You seemed like the way to get there, but… I didn’t expect your man to hide under the bridge, I must say. I didn’t see _that_ coming.”

“He is still pretty pissed about it that I made him stay under the bridge for hours.”

“I imagine. My men weren’t particularly pleased swimming through the waters to get there either.”

“Seems like they did so before Bronn came, then.”

“Seems like it.”

And what could have been prevented, had they run into each other…

“So, what do you think am I to do with you?” Jaime asks.

“What?”

“Well, you attempted to murder me. You did not negotiate with me. It was your nephew who stepped up to the role of Lord of Riverrun after you passed out. While the Freys bought it that you are way more valuable to me alive than dead… I don’t know how much value you still have for me. So… What am I to do with you?” Jaime asks, his voice made of ice and loathing alone.

“You might just as well kill me,” the Blackfish says. “That’d end this whole ordeal by far faster.”

“That would imply that your death – or rather your _life_ – means anything to me, but plainly, it does not, Lord Brynden,” Jaime tells him. “You mean nothing to me.”

The older man grimaces at him.

“I don’t care if you are dead or alive, though of course I can’t deny that a part truly wishes to open your skull with a spoon, but if you die or not… I don’t care. You dead means that I don’t have to worry about you causing trouble anymore. You alive means that your men will follow you if you give the order. While they seem to take Edmure more seriously now that he apparently grew a backbone out of nowhere, they will probably always turn their gaze to you for guidance… so… the only value you have to me… is in relation to the people around us. But I for myself? I have no use for you. You mean nothing to me, your life means nothing to me.”

It might be that it means something to Brienne, still, but for Jaime, that man died on the bridge the moment he let go of the bow's string.

“If you have the guts for it, you should just end it quickly, then,” the Blackfish says, his mouth nervously flexing.

“Because that is what _you_ want,” Jaime huffs. “You wanted to die, you still want to. But you don’t want to do the work yourself. You want someone else to pass the sentence, no?”

He wants to kill him, wants him to hurt, but Jaime realized by now that this would only give the man what he was craving.

He’d die a legend, and Jaime would be the villain of this gruesome tale.

As always.

And Jaime is done raising heroes where there are none.

The last time taught him when he let that oh so grand hero sit the Iron Throne - for all the good it did the realm.

“What’s wrong with it, even if it were so?” the Blackfish argues. “You said yourself, you’d like to kill me. You don't care if I am dead or alive, but dead… I mean no more harm to you. So what does it matter?”

“It’s craven.”

The Blackfish swings his head around to him.

“ _Craven_ ,” he repeats. “Now, that’s something I was never called before.”

“Hm, I had a taste of that bitter medicine myself. But yes, it’s craven. You don’t want to end your own life. You want someone else to do the dirty work for you. You want someone else to take the dishonor of killing you. So you can leave this world a hero. And I don't know if I am willing to give you that satisfaction. After all, I owe you nothing, after what happened, after what you did. And you _are_ my prisoner, upon your own choice."

"I didn't..."

"You had any chance to choose to take the hand I offered you."

"Imprisonment all over," the older man spats. 

"Had you not attacked, we wouldn’t have to have you surrounded by guards. You'd have many more freedoms than you enjoy them at this moment. If only you had listened, to her, to me. But sometimes we make the wrong choices, but you most certainly made that one, all by yourself.”

“Seems like it.”

That is what you get for choosing vengeance over protection.

Death over life.

“What if she dies? Will you kill me then?”

“Is that a threat?” Jaime snaps.

“A question, no more. How would I sneak into her tent to finish her off even if I wanted, which I don’t? I told you, and I still mean it. I wanted no harm done to her. But… what if she dies? Will you give in to the hatred you must bear me then? You said it yourself, my life matters nothing to you, understandably so, but hers seemingly does... a lot."

Jaime sucks the inside of his cheek into his mouth.

_More than you'd ever know._

"What will you do if she dies? How will you avenge her, then?” the Blackfish goes on.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Jaime says, his voice hoarse.

_You better pray to the Seven that it doesn’t, or else…_

“Of course… I just wonder if it’s just me who’s so driven by revenge.”

“We do unspeakable things for the people we love,” Jaime grimaces.

_The things I do for love…_

_Or for those I thought I loved when I loved more of the illusion of the both of us._

“Or in their name when they are long since in the grave.”

“Do you regret it?”

“That I hit her? Of course. I never meant for her to… that was not part of the plan. I wanted to see her back into the castle. I am an old, bitter bastard, but… that wasn’t it.”

“Not having listened, I mean. Do you regret that? Having turned down the offer?”

“At some point your heart becomes so heavy that there is no more space for even more regret. I regret way too many things, because I did things that are so very regrettable. I ran away when it mattered. I could have died with my family back then, but I did not. Now this life is my prison, and I can’t get out… now ever the more… as you say, upon my own choice.”

“Do you expect me to feel empathy for you? You are not the only one who lost people dear to him. People who were innocent.”

_Thanks to you one of them is struggling for her life._

“I don't expect empathy or sympathy. I don’t deserve it either. I just tell it as it is. I never should have run, but still I did. I ran, ran away. That is the regret weighing most heavy on my heart, though it seems that what happened by the bridge... added another stone to the pile wearing my old heart down."

“And what happened by the bridge was _not_ running away?” Jaime questions.

“What now? I was willing to die, for a greater cause than my own, for this castle, my family.”

“You chose the easy way out. You could have ended it if you really wanted. But no. You wait for someone else to do the job. And you told yourself that it’d serve your House when in fact it does not. All your men, all the people in Riverrun, are drawing a breath right now, are healthy and alright – because you were stopped. Your House lives because you didn’t get to carry out your self-proclaimed duty… You see, Brienne blames herself for Sansa, still, understandably. Because she felt like she let her down in favor of her dear dead Renly. And I reckon you blamed her for it, too.”

The Blackfish says nothing.

“If you blame her for not saving Sansa, then how are you not to blame for not protecting your men?”

“I don’t say I am not to blame.”

“Dying is easy, living when everyone else wants you dead, when you want yourself dead, when you long since gave up on yourself… _that_ is the hardest part. And that is when you have to prove yourself. Strength doesn’t flow from holding on duties that make you blind to the people you ought to protect, but from holding on to life when everyone and everything else long since let you go.”

_“You can’t die. You need to live.”_

Just _not_ for revenge.

“Who taught you that?”

“The woman who taught you probably more than one lesson ever since she stomped her way into Riverrun,” Jaime says with a sad smile. “She has that kind of influence on people, I had to learn.”

“She does," the Blackfish says with a weary, sad smile. “… What will be now? What will you do with my men? My nephew… me?”

 _At least the man is not pleading_ , Jaime thinks to himself. _That would be pitiful for us both._

He just wants to know, but that is also something doesn't think he is ready to give him.

He is not supposed to know.

_If I am limbo, then so should you be._

“I don’t have to share that information with you,” Jaime argues. “And I won’t. You are at my mercy now, my lord. You should get used to that feeling. Just like you are at her mercy… if it comes to it. Granted that she pulls through, I am inclined to leave it up to her to decide about your fate, after all… you were the one who almost got her killed.”

He grumbles something to himself.

“You forfeited any right to have a say in your own life at this point, Lord Brynden. Had you agreed, you wouldn’t be in that situation. You’d be… _considerably free_.”

“You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“Again, I would only enjoy it if you meant anything to me. You don’t. I am pointing something out to you to bear in mind because I feel like it.”

“What will be now?”

“I will go now. You will lick your wounds,” Jaime says, getting up. “I will let you know of what…you need to know, once it’s time. And until then… you wait.”

The Blackfish grimaces at him. Jaime calls out to one of the guards.

“You will go through the room another time and gather any sharp objects. I wouldn’t want Lord Brynden to _accidentally_ hurt himself by cutting himself on a sharp edge, no?”

His death won’t be his responsibility so long Jaime can help it.

With that, Jaime exits, no more words spoken as he goes, leaving the old man in his misery.

_Serves him right._

He deserves less than he gets.

Far less.

* * *

 “… Well, the good thing is that he knows he owes me, having to camp in that bloody boat. My bones still ache from it,” Bronn says, standing next to Podrick – after they just came from the other Lannister soldiers upon the lad’s request.

“I bet Ser Jaime will pay you good coin for your trouble.”

“I was surprised – you had the Blackfish down very fast. I already feared you’d shriek around like a girl even as the man was already halfway out of it.”

“He wasn’t out of it. You only hit him in the shoulder,” Pod argues vehemently. “And m’lady taught me well while we were on the way to Winterfell. She taught me how to fight, it’s… argh!”

Bronn has him in headlock before Podrick can even protest, struggling against the older man’s grip.

“One fine squire you are, huh?” Bronn grins, before pushing him away with an easy smile. Podrick grimaces at him, suddenly looking sad. “Well, for however long… if m’lady…”

“Now, now, don’t expect me to cheer you back up. I am not the type for it. But from what I got to see, that woman’s tough. She managed to make it to King’s Landing – even with the Kingslayer in tow.”

“She is, yes… tough, I mean.”

“Oh, there he goes again…,” Bronn hums, his eyes drifting back to the tent where Brienne was brought to after the happenings by the bridge.

“Huh?” Podrick frowns, but then he spots Jaime approaching. “Oh.”

“Every few hours he comes dancing around the tent like a lion circles its prey.”

“He surely fears for m’lady.”

“Small wonder. My greatest fear was still that he’d just give the castle to the Tullys so he could win her.”

“What?” Podrick gapes at the older man, who only rolls his shoulders at him with a smug grin.

“You still have some growing up to do, huh?” Bronn huffs, amused. “Let’s see if he makes it inside this time around.”

“He didn’t yet?”

“Nah, he likes to pace about the tent. It’s quite fascinating to watch. It’s like a teenager stuffed into the body of a man.”

“This is not funny,” Pod argues.

“What in this world is?” Bronn argues. “This whole world is a mess, and no one's going to fix it any time soon, so I don’t care about tone or what is appropriate when people say it's time. Life’s too short for that shit…”

He looks over at Jaime another time.

“And it’s definitely too short for _that_ shit, too.”

Jaime grimaces as he stops in his tracks. At some point he reckons he makes himself appear ridiculous, circulating around the tent like a lion in a cage where the door is open, ready to walk through.

Back when Brienne took the arrow for him, and the healers finally came, Jaime just wanted to go with her to make sure that she was alright, but then duty called, as Bronn shouted out to him to break him out of staring at Brienne on the stretcher – and Jaime hated every second of it. He had to talk to the Freys. He had to see about the Tullys. Then Edmure, and keep himself from just strangling the old goat for what he did to her.

By the time all of that was over and dealt with, he had sought out the healer straight away, to know of any changes – obviously he gave orders to inform him of anything gravely happening while he was handling the aftermath of the siege that didn’t really happen, but he wanted to talk to the man himself.

And a small part of him had tried to console himself with the idea that it would be the same as it was back when they left Harrenhal together, after the jump into the bear pit. When he had told Qyburn to have her neck checked out, fearing that as much as it had bled, it had been something grave, only to have the wicked maester without chains point out to him that she had sustained no greater injuries, against all odds.

Except for the scars that were bound to remain, a painful memorabilia of how he failed her by not finding the wits and guts to take her with him before she was tossed into an arena with a bloody bear.

But otherwise, she had remained fairly unharmed.

Not so when the healer told him about her condition now.

One should think that a small arrow cannot do this much harm, but misfortune really seemed to have chosen her that day. The arrow actually found its way through the ribcage, or so the healer told him, seemingly doing some damage to the lungs. Jaime’s mind blurted out at some point as the one message manifested itself inside his mind.

“She may not make it through the night, my lord.”

She made it through the night, however, and even the next, but the message remained the same whenever Jaime asked. They were always only holding on to shreds of time.

Bits of a future ripped apart by a single arrow.

Jaime could still smack himself for ever having been so foolish to believe that he could protect her in that situation. He failed her miserably.

He draws another circle on the moist grass.

Just why did she have to do that?

Jaime would have been fine if the arrow had hit him in her stead, but _this_? He didn’t jump into a bear pit to save her – only to have her die from an arrow wound, _Seven Hells_.

_“How do you want to go?”_

_“In the arms of the woman I love.”_

_“She want the same thing?”_

He shakes his head, making a mental note to smack Bronn the next time he sees him.

It’s an odd feeling, really. Jaime hates it that he always has to handle other business with regards to the siege, but once he stands in front of her tent or talks to the healer, Jaime dreads that he cannot distract himself with the tasks he feels like being able to handle - and is bound to confront the reality of the things outside his control.

Because apparently, he seems to be better at lordship than he likely ever was at knighthood.

He longs to be inside the tent, while at the same time he longs to be anywhere but there.

_Longing is wanting to arrive somewhere, but your feet don't carry you, so you are bound to watch that place from where you stand, never touching, never reaching it._

Who said that? Jaime faintly remembers having heard that when he was still younger, but it’s all a blur now.

He walks another circle.

_So much to that._

“My lord?”

Jaime whips his head around to see the elderly healer come out of the tent.

“Yes,” he replies stiffly, but then lowers his voice. “Is there… anything new?”

“Nothing new much, no,” the healer tells him.

“Did she get worse?”

“No, neither did she get better… it’s the same as before. No change.”

“Any signs of infection?”

“Not yet. The good thing is that we could treat her immediately. It would have been far worse had she been, say, out in the wild or amidst a battlefield.”

“Good, good… that’s good…,” Jaime mutters, more to himself than the healer, but then searches the older man’s eyes again. “Has she… woken up?”

“Not enough to be conscious, no. She drifted in and out a few times, but never reached the state of consciousness.”

“I see.”

“If you want to go inside…”

“I’ll have to see… you know, a lord’s schedule is… packed,” Jaime replies, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“Of course. I will go then. I will return later to see after her.”

“Thank you.”

With that the older man walks away, leaving Jaime standing before the entrance of the tent once more.

His hand moves to the folds of the tent, but then he draws back again.

_Just go inside, it’s not that difficult. You do it all the time. Just go inside. Go._

But his feet won’t move.

At some point Jaime doesn’t know why he can’t seem to overcome that invisible barrier drawn around that tent. He knows what is in there, who is in there.

But perhaps that is the crux.

 _She_ is in there.

Injured.

Hurt.

Paining.

Maybe dying little while from now.

The picture of her bleeding in his arms is already scourged into the back of his head, probably until the day he dies, in the same corner where the memories burned their way into his very being, of the bear pit, or when Locke’s men dragged her away, though gladly that is one of the few things he prevented for real after all.

_My one success… I paid a hand for._

A part of him just want to hold on to that picture of her, tall and strong, the armor still shining without a single scratch on it, a new resolve formed and sealed with a sword.

_"The best swords have names. Any ideas?"_

_"Othkeeper."_

And it’d likely end up shattered like broken glass if he entered the tent and saw her… and then she…

_Longing is wanting to arrive somewhere, but your feet don't carry you, so you are bound to watch that place from where you stand, never touching, never reaching it._

_Longing is to walk around, to walk about a place you measured with your own steps, again and again, arriving at the same spot over and over, but never inside, never across the barrier upon which you do your lonely dance, all by yourself. Instead you walk about again, in the hope that finally you will break through that circle and end that dance._

He was a boy when he first heard it, that much Jaime can recall now.

Jaime’s feet start walking again, from this side of the tent to the other, glad for it that the soldiers are roaming around the campfires in the other direction, celebrating their easy victory with wine and women.

Not that Jaime would care even if they were around. He doesn’t concern himself with their opinion. For them, he is likely still the Kingslayer behind cupped hands, muttered into flagons of wine, only to burst out laughing.

So long they do what he says, Jaime doesn’t care what they may think of him.

_The only opinion that matters is…_

And back again he walks.

_Longing is wanting to arrive somewhere, but your feet don't carry you, so you are bound to watch that place from where you stand, never touching, never reaching it._

_Longing is to walk around, to walk about a place you measured with your own steps, again and again, arriving at the same spot over and over, but never inside, never across the barrier upon which you do your lonely dance, all by yourself. Instead you walk about again, in the hope that finally you will break through that circle and end that dance._

_Longing is trying to hold on when you cannot reach what you want to hold close to your chest so desperately, to never let it go again. Longing never ends – until it does. Until you step forward, until you dare to stop the dance on your own, make a new step, choose a new direction._

His mother told him, Jaime remembers now. After he was sad about something that seems to have escaped him still. He was upset, that far he can recall, she stroked his hair, and told him these words, a book in her lap, her blonde hair falling around her beautiful face like a halo, the face he couldn't call to mind for years... until now.

But over time the words left him along with her face, but here they are again.

_Longing ends once you make a choice to step forward._

_You just have to choose._

And suddenly he stands inside the tent.

Brienne is propped up on her side to put no pressure on the wound to the other side of her ribcage, her face in his direction, her eyes closed, a fine sheen of sweat gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the entrance. A thick bandage is wrapped around her ribs and chest. A soft tremor shakes her the whole time.

She looks oddly younger now, smaller almost.

Fragile.

Broken.

Jaime draws closer to her, his feet moving forward now on their own.

He never wanted to see her like this.

That is one of the things he wanted to prevent ever since he got to know her, grew to trust her, grew to care.

Yet, here they are.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime mutters, aware that she won’t hear him. He licks his lips nervously.

_Sorry for not making you stay when you first came to me._

_For pushing you back when I should have held on._

_For coming too late._

_For failing you._

_Sorry, just sorry._

“… I will say to you the same words you said to me a while back – and you better listen to your own advices, hm?” Jaime says with a sad smile, his eyes stinging. “You cannot die. You must live, you understand?”

_I can’t have you die._

_I need you alive._

_I… need you._

"Who else would swing Oathkeeper but you?"

Why is he talking to her though he knows she won’t answer? Jaime doesn’t know, but neither does he care.

You have to say things to make them real, palpable, touchable, to make them part of the reality you may try to deny yourself by living in sweet illusions, and even if not, by distracting yourself with work and pacing outside tents instead of being inside them.

Once you say them, you can no longer escape them.

Jaime’s hand extends to pull the covers a little back in place once she starts shifting with a soft moan, brushing against her arm for the smallest of moments when her body starts to move on its own accord to find a position that is less painful.

It’s as though small lightning bolts go right through him once his skin comes into contact with hers. And it is only during that moment that Jaime realizes that this is the first time that he touched her in any way since Harrenhal.

 _When she pulled me out, even at the danger of falling back in herself – that was the last time_ , he recalls. There were moments when they had touched almost once they were in King’s Landing. For instance, there was a moment when their hands almost brushed against each other when he gave her Oathkeeper. But just almost.

But even before that day there were those almost-touches. When he wanted to hold her by the shoulder when the Red Wedding turned up in conversation and the grief pooled out of her big blue eyes to the point that it seemed that only her strong muscles held her together. His hand was inches from her, but then he couldn’t bring himself to it, giving himself the explanation that people would only start to assume things – and that Jaime didn’t want to put her in additional danger while in King’s Landing.

Being with or around a Lannister was danger enough, he knows now.

Jaime lets out a shaky breath.

_What if she dies?_

The Blackfish had asked him that back in the tent. And truth be told, Jaime just doesn’t know what would be.

He always tried to push those thoughts away when he was alone in King’s Landing, later on in Dorne, then in King’s Landing again as the scales were lifted off his eyes. He wanted to believe that she was unbeatable, that no harm could be done to her so long she wore the armor he had given her, so long she swung the sword he had her take along on her quest.

He wanted her to be his always in a world full of too soon, too late, never, and almost.

Jaime didn’t want to think of what would be if serious harm was done to her, if she… died.

He saved this woman, and somehow, without a truly conscious thought, the idea seems to have manifested in his mind that this would guarantee her safety even in the future. The unspoken promise that he’d save her again if need be.

Just that he didn’t.

Just that he failed.

Just that she now balances on the rope of life and death and there is no sure way to tell if she will make it across or fall into the abyss.

_What would be if she died?_

Jaime tries to think of it. He can imagine what he’d likely do with the Blackfish, and his phantom hand itches in agreement. He can think of some of the actions he’d have to undertake then.

But he has no idea what that would do to his cracked heart – because it refuses this possibility.

_She cannot die. She must live._

This woman saved him when he didn't know he needed saving.

She broke open the seal that held his heart in deep slumber, allowing only for the most basic emotions to enter and exit, the seal that made him mute to the time he spent as Aerys’ hostage, the seal that held his name, just his name, only him.

_“Jaime. My name is Jaime.”_

A world without her is simply a world his mind cannot fathom. Sure, he was without her once she departed, but Jaime knew, deep down knew, or rather, tried to make himself believe that she was alive and well, that she succeeded when he failed – because she was and is all the knightly ideals he didn’t find in himself for the longest of times.

He wanted to believe in that twisted fairytale that no one would ever write down – because no one writes the exceptional tales of women in armor when they can settle down with the comfortable stories of the old world order.

He wanted to believe that, for once, the good guys, or in this case, perhaps the one good woman in all of Westeros, would get a reward, would finally get what they deserve.

But that was a fantasy, he knows it now.

The Gods don’t care, the Gods don’t mind. If it pleases them, they spill the blood of the bad and the good alike.

_Longing never ends – until it does. Until you step forward, until you dare to stop the dance on your own, make a new step, choose a new direction._

_Longing ends once you make a choice to step forward._

_You just have to choose._

Choose.

The fingers of his left hand wrap around hers, which feel cold to his touch.

_We don’t get to choose, though, right?_

_But… what if we do?_

_What if we just have to dare to choose?_

Jaime tightens his grip on her, and if he is not mistaken, he feels her press back, if only just a little. His eyes sting with small tears dancing on his lashes.

She is still here.

Even now, dancing that rope above the abyss, she is his one reminder that life is out there.

That there is hope.

A future, somewhere out there.

However fragile, however broken.

But there.

“You must live, Brienne, you hear me?”

“You cannot leave.”

“Don’t leave… me.”

“ _Please_.”

In the distance, ravens caw, trees solemnly hum in the wind, men drink, men sing and yell, flames crackle, but none of that reaches Jaime as his world shrinks to a single touch, a single sensation that he hopes won’t slip away from him.

Ever again.

_Longing never ends – until it does._

And Jaime hopes that it will, prays it will.

Because that means he will finally look her in the big blue eyes again.

_Choose, Brienne, choose life, alright?_

_Choose to live._

_Choose however you please, except for death._

_Choose life._

_Choose not to let go._

He tightens his grip on her, the warmth of his body creeping into hers, and the cold creeping into him.

_Just don't let go._

_Don't let go of me.  
_


	7. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne wakes up. 
> 
> The two have a long overdue conversation. 
> 
> Two messages arrive. 
> 
> I still suck at summaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Thanks for commenting and kudoing, you precious peoples!!!
> 
> First of all, my deepest apologies for taking that achingly long with the last updates now. :(
> 
> First a Bachelor thesis needed to be written, then the writer's block crept upon me and didn't let go of me (still hasn't quite), and I had a severe case of anxiety of somehow bringing this fic to a conclusion. 
> 
> So, I decided to chop this up into two chapters, to add an epilog. I think that fits better with the Love theme instead of spreading out the conclusion already here. That somehow seems to take away from the momentum, or so I reckoned. Therefore, it's now 8 chapters instead of 7. I hope to be posting the epilog within the next couple of days - I already have most of it framed, it just needs some (a lot of) final touches.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the long wait. I hope this chapter *somehow* makes up for some of that pain, for those of you who, for some reason still quite beyond me, were eagerly waiting for the last installments. 
> 
> Oh yes, I will send ahead that I will do some adaptations in terms of time frame, though that will become more relevant in the epilog - if the show can pull out its jetpacks to fast-forward (see season 6 finale), then so can a little Wacky like me. :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy.
> 
> Much love!!! ♥♥♥

Brienne finds herself drifting, shifting.

Away.

Apart.

Out of place.

_Ironic, almost._

Because that’s what she’s always been. For all her life: _Out of place._

A thing that just doesn’t belong.

A thing that doesn’t fit.

An ugly thing that doesn’t belong to anyone or anything.

Too mannish to pass for a woman.

Too weak-hearted to pass for a knight.

Too little of this, too much of that.

Trout, wolf, or lion? She seems to be neither and all at once at the same time.

_I never should have left Tarth._

She is only a nuisance, if Brienne doesn’t mean people’s downfalls. Especially of those people she comes to care about.

_The people I lo_ …

“… ienne?”

Her mind etches towards the noise, like a scared deer towards a stretch of moist, green grass, dipped in dew before the sun fully rose above the glistening tree crowns.

She heard it a few times, as far as Brienne can recall against the odds of her fragmented memories. At first there was nothing, a void of blackness she just kept falling through, momentarily only stopped as pain shot through her like an arrow, then another, and another.

But then there was a voice, small, hushed, like a small bell’s chiming, and she drifted towards it in the void, even though she didn’t know to where she went.

At first she thought it was Renly. Then she believed it to be Lady Catelyn. Then Lady Sansa. All the people who died under her protection, or the lack thereof. But the deeper she fell, the clearer it was to her that it was neither of them.

It wasn’t the voice of the dead, calling from their cold graves.

Familiar, yet strange.

_But who is it?_

She can’t tell.

If only she could open her eyes to see.

See where that warmth dancing over her fingertips comes from.

See where the pressure to the heel of her hand originates.

See where there is light in the darkness that she can only feel rushing through her.

But then images flash back into her mind, green and red. _Lots of_ red.

The drawbridge.

Lord Edmure.

Podrick.

Lord Brynden.

The arrow.

_Jaime_.

The taste of her own blood in her mouth.

The pain, not just of the arrow, but the stabbing hurt of betrayal and having betrayed one’s goals yet again, of failure, stabbing right into her, as though it wanted to make her heart go dead at last.

The sensation of Jaime holding her.

The warmth she wanted to creep into as he cradled her limp body, held her close to the point that even through the armor, through the steel, she could hear and feel the soft ba-dum of his frantic heart echoing into the most distant corners of her body.

The noise of muttered promises of a tomorrow Brienne thought was long since part of yesterday already at that moment by the drawbridge.

“Brienne?”

Her eyes open at once, blinking against dim light that’s still too bright for her.

A gray mass swims before her eyes, but she can’t see just what it is. A film of milky glass obstructs her vision. Brienne blinks again and again until her vision starts to clear, to reveal a face beneath the milky gray.

A familiar face.

Or is she just imaging this?

_Jaime._

She screws her eyes shut tightly at once.

_Too bright. All too bright._

“Brienne?”

His voice is impossibly soft, as though it was wrapped in wool.

_I must be dreaming, then,_ she thinks to herself rather bitterly, feeling the urge to laugh out loud, but then she draws in a long breath and it is as though she is breathing fire, thieving any strangled laughter from her lungs.

Brienne lets out a moan. Her chest hurts. Her side burns. It shouldn’t be that bad. It was just an arrow. She took arrows before, but this one? This one hurts so she can’t hold back the whimpers.

Her armor and shield seem to have dispersed into thin air along with her hopes of having brought Lord Brynden away from the corrupting, consuming forces of revenge.

It was _just_ an arrow, though. But still, it hurts and leaves her vulnerable and open like a wound. Because that arrow almost would have killed Jaime.

And perhaps that is what hurts the most.

_The things you do for… No_. _Not me._

Brienne’s mind dances around the memories of the bridge again, the world shifting back out of focus. How the Blackfish suddenly turned against her, against Jaime, turned towards them with bow and arrow in hand, black eels creeping over his face.

_I trusted him, foolish thing I am. I thought I had gotten through to him, stupid thing I am. I thought I could change something, when in fact I can do nothing at all. Nothing, absolutely nothing._

Brienne had no clue. She didn’t see it coming. Brienne had a bad feeling, yes, she knew that it was dangerous, an impossible task indeed, but Brienne didn’t think he would go _that_ far. She thought he would act rashly, that he would order for his troops to get ready for the siege, that he’d turn around and go, that he’d yell, curse, and make decisions without reason, that he wouldn’t listen to her or forget what both saw flickering up when he agreed to the parley. She was prepared for all of that – but not for this.

Brienne came with to the drawbridge to prevent bigger harm, or so she had hoped. She had been prepared to stop the man’s hand in case he dared to pull his dagger from the sheath in a surge of anger overtaking him, but that he would make preparations to have arrows and bow underneath the bridge to take a shot at Jaime? She didn’t see that coming. At all.

She thought that her being there might prevent the Blackfish from falling back into the abyss she had dared to believe she had pulled him away from by a few steps. She thought she could calm him, make him listen, force his eyes open to the alternatives Jaime presented to them.

Brienne, foolishly, thought she could make the man see the tomorrow Jaime promised, held out to him with his own one hand. Yet, in the end, it was mere chance that she managed to dodge that arrow for Jaime – or else he would have died.

_Because of me. Again._

_“_ _You returned my brother safely to King's Landing.”_

With one hand less. A hand he lost protecting her after she didn’t listen to him. Didn’t want to believe that someone would tell their secret to Locke and his men for some coins. Didn't want to believe in the bad of men. And as it appears, that is a lesson Brienne failed to learn to this very day, trusting a broken man to mend the cracks in himself.

_“In truth, he rescued me, Your Grace. More than once.”_

From Locke’s men. From rape. From the bear. Later on the Queen Regent herself, sending Brienne away from King’s Landing so that Cersei would not get any ideas of where Brienne’s loyalties lied all along.

_“Did he? Haven't heard that story before.”_

_“Not such a fascinating story, I'm afraid.”_

**_Most definitely_ ** _not a fascinating story. No one writes of the stupid, mannish, stubborn women in mail and armor who believe themselves the next Ser Duncan the Tall._

No one sings songs about Maidens Not Fair, rescued from a bear, by a knight whose honor was long since hidden behind the name of Kingslayer tattooed into his skin, the fabric of his being.

No one wants to tell the stories of a woman whose purposes in life mark her greatest failures, who carved out her promises until nothing but thin shells remained, who has… no worth beyond the promises she can keep, which are little to begin with.

“Brienne?”

That voice again.  
  
Brienne frowns as Jaime’s face returns to her vision, clearer once more.

_His voice._

She lets out a shaky breath, but that only sends more pain through her body, as though it was carried by a massive wave, ready to crash in her side.

“Are you with me?”

_I wish I…_

But Brienne knows she is in no position to have wishes.

She can feel that warmth touching her cheek now. Brienne turns her gaze to see Jaime pressing the flat of his hand against the side of her face, trying to make her focus on him. She looks at him, rather dazed. Brienne opens her mouth to reply something, but once her throat is supposed to form sounds, an explosion occurs inside it and she has to swallow the fire burning its way down her chest.

“I…,” she croaks, her chest heaving.

It feels as though her entire body was dead for a few days.

_Maybe it was…_

Maybe she is still … _dead_.

How else would he be talking to her in soft, hushed voices, offering a sad half smile?

How else would he touch her, his callused fingertips feeling like feathers against the side of her face?

“I will get the healer. Try to stay awake, alright? I’ll be right back,” she can hear him say with urgency in his voice. And at once he is gone, and Brienne feels the cold of the wave rushing through her.

_Stay awake… what for?_ she wants to ask, but doesn't have the voice for it. Brienne doesn’t even know what she is _alive_ for… granted that she is, because Brienne is not yet certain of that. This might still be her last moment before finding herself in front of the gates to either the Seven Heavens or Seven Hells.

But before she can let the thought sink beneath her skin, his shadow creeps back into her vision, followed by his face.

He didn’t shave in a few days, or so it seems. Dark circles run under his bright eyes.

“The healer will be here any minute now,” Jaime tells her, his hand resuming to touch her arm this time.

Brienne just keeps frowning at him as her mind keeps swimming upwards towards the water surface somehow.

Why is he touching her?

Why is he not yelling at her?

Why hasn’t he turned away?

Why did he come back?

Something makes a sound to her right, and an old man with gray hair moves into her vision. He offers a smile, missing some teeth.

“Awake at last,” she can hear him comment.

“That’s good, right?” Jaime questions.

“Of course. Though I wouldn’t be too hopeful. Might be that she will drift away soon enough again, my lord,” the healer says as he leans over Brienne to examine her. She can’t help but shudder.

She feels cold. So very cold. _Cold. Cold. Cold._

“No need to worry, my lady. I just want to have a quick look at that wound of yours,” the old man goes on in a soothing voice.

From the corner of her eye, she can see the dark blood on the bandages, the stains, and it makes her sick.

_That could have been **his** blood. _

Brienne shudders again.

He could have been dead.

_He could have…_

Brienne screws her eyes shut at the thought and the pain pooling in the pit of her stomach from the mental images of what could have been.

“Brienne?”

She cannot even control it that her eyes drift back to him whenever his voice rings out. As though it is the only thing holding her in that world, however pitiful that is.

_“We don't get to choose who we love.”_

Why can’t she just let go? It’s hopeless anyway. Because there is no hope for her in the first place.

Brienne continues frowning as the healer’s words turn into an unrecognizable murmur, until he vanishes from her ears and eyes, leaving only Jaime in her vision and mind.

“Some better news at last,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes before settling down next to her, his hand brushing against her arm lightly as he does, sending shivers up her spine.

_Warm_.

“How… long did I… sleep?” she brings out as her voice finally starts to return to her.

“Sleep is perhaps the nice description for ‘wrestling with life and death’… It was five days and nights,” Jaime huffs, bitterness weighing heavy on his voice. “They removed the arrow, but it left quite some damage. For a while it wasn’t sure if you…”

He pauses, averts his gaze. Brienne studies him for a moment, but she long since gave up on the hope of being able to read him. Or anyone for the matter.

_I didn’t see through Lord Brynden’s scheme either._

“The Blackfish?” Brienne asks, swallowing.

“He took an arrow to the shoulder, the lucky, bitter bastard. He’s healing up in the Lannister camps now, under supervision of course.”

“What happened… after…?”

“Edmure did as I told him. He ordered the Tully men to surrender the castle. Conveniently enough, their self-proclaimed Lord of Riverrun was out of it, so Brynden couldn’t object, really. And so they followed Edmure’s commands against the odds of this still being _Edmure_. We brought them to the Lannister camps until… well, we know where to move next. But they won’t have to pay for the old goat’s foolishness if I can help it,” Jaime tells her.

So he did it after all.

He made it happen.

He brought about a tomorrow even from the grave of a bitter yesterday.

_Of course he did._

“… I really didn’t know that the Blackfish would do... what he did,” Brienne whispers, averting her gaze.

“I reckoned as much. Or else you would have dodged better,” he jokes weakly.

“I thought that I could convince him to… prevent bloodshed,” Brienne goes on. “I thought I could… change his mind. I thought I already did… in _some_ way at least…”

“Well, he seems _troubled_ now, if that is you any comfort. Though I still think he is just disappointed that he didn’t hit me, as he had it planned,” Jaime huffs. “He’s asked for you, too.”

“… Will you raise charges against him?” Brienne questions.

“Do you want me to?”

“What?” She grimaces at him. “No, it’s… what I was trying to say is that he attempted to… murder you. Will you raise charges for that? Will you have him… executed for having tried to kill you during a parley?”

“Well, it took me about all of my self-control to not just toss him off that bridge, not going to lie,” he sighs. “But I am much more concerned with the idea that he almost had _you_ killed. Do you want me to raise charges for _that_? Because if you want me to… be my guest.”

He wants him dead because of her taking that arrow?

_Because of me?_

“… No.”

“I feared that you were going to say that. At some point I have to teach you a lesson about forgetting all of your empathy,” Jaime exhales, leaning his head back. “A lesson or two about resentment and… cold-blooded, irrational… revenge.”

Truth be told, a small part of him surely hoped Brienne would say that she wants the Blackfish to pay for what he has done in some way, though Jaime had little illusions about it that Brienne wouldn’t ever go that way. For that she is too righteous.

_Too good._

“He is… a broken man. I think he did himself more harm than I ever could with any wish for revenge…”

“Well, _he_ was not the one almost dying,” Jaime argues, a streak of anger flashing across his face.

_Almost dying in **my** arms. _

“Maybe not physically, but emotionally…”

“Hopefully. Or else I will have to see about it that he gets to suffer a bit more,” he grumbles.

Because, to Jaime’s liking, that man didn't suffer enough _by far_.

But those thoughts already start to retreat into the distant corners of his mind as he keeps looking at her.

Awake.

_Alive_.

“Why did you do it?” he asks at last, the one question burning on his lips ever since she turned around while on the drawbridge.

“Why did I do what? Side with the Blackfish?” Brienne frowns.

“Almost get killed to throw yourself between an armored man and an arrow.”

“Aimed at his head, by a man who usually doesn’t miss his target,” she adds sharply. “Ever.”

He would have been dead.

_Dead_.

The mere thought tears her apart.

“Why did you do it?” Jaime repeats.

“Was I supposed to let you die?”

“Am I supposed to let you die in my stead?” he retorts, inhales sharply, reminding himself that he shouldn’t upset her.

“Why did you do it?” he asks again, calmer, yet more anguished.

_Just why?_

Why would she throw herself in the line of fire – for the likes of Jaime?

Why would _anyone_ do that?

Jaime grew accustomed to be willing to sacrifice his life for people under his protection. Since his youth, that was what made up most of his life. Protect the King. Protect the family. Try to keep siblings from killing each other. Protect the people of King’s Landing. He was not as successful as he would have liked, but Jaime had chosen to protect those people and he tried, even when he failed, even when he himself put them at risk along the way, if not with that intention.

Jaime never had anyone who would go as far as to throw him or herself into the line of fire – for him, however.

Outside his family, he never had anyone to wish to protect him, to keep him alive. He was the Kingslayer, will forever be the Kingslayer, and that was is and will always be it. He understood that by now.

The thought that someone would go as far as to die for him still doesn’t want to sink past the fabric of Jaime’s tunic, doesn’t make contact with his flesh, however.

Who’d want to die defending a Lannister?

A Kingslayer?

“… Why did you jump into the bear pit?” Brienne whispers, not meeting his gaze.

And Jaime has to grant her that one thing – for someone who doesn’t always let on how sharp of mind she actually is, retreating to silence an scowls instead, she knows how to turn tables.

“It’s cheap to answer a question by asking another,” he replies with an uneasy half-smile.

“… I don’t know why,” Brienne admits with a long sigh, ignoring the shout of her sides protesting the movement.

“You are still a terrible liar, Brienne.”

“… It seemed like a small sacrifice… by comparison," she mutters after a long pause, not daring to look him in the eye as she speaks. 

“You dead… a small sacrifice to you. _What_?” Jaime can do nothing but frown at her as though she had just spoken Valyrian to him.

That won’t go inside Jaime’s head.

“Had I not… then you would have…”

“And you think that would’ve been better.”

No question – he knows it true.

“Not as bad,” Brienne replies feebly.

“Why would you think that?” Jaime asks. 

“… You can… you have a purpose. You… you are now in a position of power. You can change something. You already did.”

“What did I do?” he asks with the deepest of frowns.

What exactly would she find praise-worthy in this whole mess?

That they are all alive is more luck than anything else.

“You took Riverrun without bloodshed.”

“I still took it.”

It’s not like he told the Freys to fuck themselves – as they deserve it, and as he should have if he were to truly do the right thing. The _honorable_ thing.

“At some point I start to… understand… that this was inevitable. Even if you had given them the castle against royal decree… they wouldn’t have kept it for long. Someone else would have come to take it, by force. But… you had any chance to… just take it on your own. You… could have done what all the others would have done at once after the Blackfish sent the… _demand_. You didn’t. And you succeeded. You can… do so many things, still.”

“And you?” Jaime asks hoarsely. “What of you?”

Brienne wants to roll her shoulders, but that only hurts ever the more. Though gladly, Jaime seems to understand her gesture, however small, anyway.

“The only thing I can do is... remove myself. I can… go back to Tarth, that’s about it. That’s as far as it gets for me now, I suppose,” Brienne says, surprised at herself that she voices that aloud, to Jaime of all people. Those are the words she normally leaves unspoken, doesn't allow to come to the surface. 

“What do you mean?”

“I have… no purpose anymore. Renly is dead _and_ avenged, which cost Sansa’s life. My vow to Lady Catelyn… I won’t ever fulfill it because I made that choice. My vow to… you… The siege is handled and… the Blackfish did what I tried to prevent… I swore fealty to him, but… I guess that after that arrow… that service seems to be terminated… You see, there just isn’t anything left for me. There is nothing I can do anymore. So, as I was trying to say… if there is no purpose in me while there is one in you… then yes, a small price by comparison, you see.”

“So you think I jumped into the bear pit for nothing?”

“What?” Brienne blinks at him.

“Well, following your logic, then…”

“Could we… not try to bend this into mental games? I am… not up for that,” Brienne asks, letting out a soft moan.

She feels bare, exposed, open like one big wound.

“So… you want to tell me that you find yourself… _worthless_? Is that it? _You_ of all people?” Jaime questions, his voice softer now, though no less demanding, needing to know. 

“I am only as much as my vows, my duties. And… I failed, again and again and then _again_ another time. It's not even about what I consider myself, it’s… I caused more harm than I did good in this world. I left more ashes than fertile ground for futures to grow. I destroyed the one of a young girl because I couldn’t let go of my revenge, the past.”

“ _You serve nothing and no one by following him into the earth,”_ Lady Catelyn had told her, and Brienne had brushed it off back then.

“ _I don’t care about revenge_.” – Even Jaime told her, but Brienne didn’t want to believe in how fast the fire of revenge could consume you if you allowed it to set flame to the very core of your being.

Brienne always thought that the greatest pain she suffered was holding Renly as he died. She thought that losing him was the worst that could happen to her. But then Jaime lost his hand for her, then she heard of Lady Catelyn’s death, then she lost Arya, then Sansa, then the brave woman who was willing to deliver a message to Winterfell only to never return, then the frozen blood in the snow, the Blackfish… and Jaime again.

When that arrow flew, all Brienne could think of was that she couldn’t bear the idea of holding Jaime in her arms the same way she held Renly as he had died. That thought was so very unbearable, unthinkable, that all she could do was turn and try to prevent that from happening.

But revenge? Revenge brought her nothing but more pain. Even if Brienne probably gave Stannis a far more honorable death than he deserved by granting him a quick death that he wouldn’t have gotten at the hands of the Boltons, she chose herself and her revenge over the welfare of those in her care.

But that won’t ever happen again.

“Back in the day you told me that I must live to take my revenge,” Jaime says with a small smile.

“And I was wrong about that.”

“Oh, you hurt me,” he chuckles softly, tapping his left against his chest, feigning pain.

“Not about _that_. It’s that I was wrong to believe that you should live _for revenge_. That anyone should. I saw it, I felt it. The Blackfish did, too. Revenge’s no good reason to stay alive for.”

Revenge only hollows you out, leaving only ground for the echoes of the past to fill you.

“And what should we live for instead, you think?”

“Protection.”

“Aha," he says, nodding his head slowly. 

“And I seem to protect people most if I… remove myself from this whole mess. I only brought about more trouble," Brienne goes on, bowing her head. 

“Brienne.”

“People die around me," she insists, her voice breaking, shattering. "Either because I am there or because I am… not there to prevent it. Renly died because I was on his guard and didn’t see the shadow until it was too late… You lost your hand because you protected me from Locke’s men… Lady Catelyn died because I wasn’t there during the Red Wedding to protect her… Lady Sansa died because I chose to go after Stannis instead of watching the tower.”

“Arya didn’t die, did she?” Jaime argues.

“Pod told you?”

“Of course he did. I thought I should use my time to learn of the most important events that took place during your voyage to the North, which are quite a few in fact. To think that you won against the Hound,” Jaime says, his lips curling into an uncertain smile.

“We don’t know if she’s dead or alive,” Brienne returns.

And judging by her amount of success of late, she is ever the more convinced that Arya is likely dead, or even if not, was so drawn away by her that she won’t ever come back.

“Well, back in King’s Landing we believed her dead for sure.”

“Even if so…,” she means to say, but Jaime is quick enough to interrupt her. “Well, and _I_ am very much alive.”

Brienne’s big blue eyes flicker at him.

“I am alive because of you,” he says, his voice so strong that it echoes into the deepest corner of her body, shaking something awake, whatever it may be.

She stares at him now, swallowing thickly, sending a shiver through her body pulling on the stitches to almost have her moan, though she manages to contain herself.

“That’s the plain truth. And you can now try to deny it by recounting your faults or whatever else, but it’s just that simple. If not for you, I’d be dead. _More than once_.”

She made him live when he had given up on himself.

She went out in an attempt to restore his honor, if only between themselves.

She took an arrow for him.

If not for her, he would be dead some many times. Jaime would have died more deaths, but instead, Brienne gave him a chance of rebirth, of taking charge of his own life again.

She gave him a chance when no one else would.

“You see, people die around us. We live in dangerous, cruel times where mothers have their daughters ripped away from them, where families are brutally murdered at a wedding, where young girls seemingly find no other way out but down a wall, or are poisoned because of the faults the family committed without their assistance. Sons murder fathers. Sisters try to murder brothers. All betray each other. Trouts try to shoot lions. This world is unsafe at its core. That has nothing to do with you. It’s a hard time to protect the ones you love, with a world so at disarray. It’s hard enough to keep yourself alive. The lives you wish to protect beyond your own… if you manage, it’s good fortune, but it’s no guarantee, no matter how good you are. No matter how hard you try.”

Brienne bites her lower lip.

“It’s not your fault that the world is simply… mad. We all just try to stay afloat in this storm. You protected them the best you could.”

“That wasn’t enough," Brienne insists. 

There has to be something she can do, something, anything. Even if she doesn't achieve it, there must be something she can do - or could have done instead, had she made the right choice.

“Do you think I’m to blame for Myrcella’s death?” Jaime asks, catching her off-guard. Brienne stares at him, eyes wide. “What? No, of course not, I…”

“Well, if you think that I am not responsible for her demise, having failed to protect her from the evil I was supposed to get her away from, then how are you to blame?”

“I made a choice not to watch my post.”

“Let me ask this way around: What would have been, had you seen the candle get lit? How would you have gotten into the castle? Was there a sure way inside?”

“No sure way, no. But I would have found a way. I would have," Brienne tells him with vehemence. 

No matter what, she would have found a way.

“I don’t even doubt it. But it likely would have gotten you killed. Many things could have happened to Sansa even if you had stayed at your post. And if someone else had guarded Renly, the shadow still could have slain him. Had you been at the Red Wedding, you either would have gone with the Blackfish or would have died trying to defend Catelyn Stark from a mass of men whose only purpose was her and her family’s death. You there or not may not have prevented their deaths.”

“But at least I would have tried. Like this, I didn’t even…," Brienne mutters, but her voice leaves her at once, the images of the blood in the snow swimming up before her eyes. 

“I tried, still failed. That doesn’t make Myrcella come back to life. And trust me, I wanted to kill the people responsible. The Seven know I still want it, no matter what I may have said about revenge before, but… she won’t come back, no matter if I avenge her or not, that much even I get. And she remains dead no matter how I ask myself just what I could have done instead.” Jaime sighs, trying not to think of the images of her dying in his arms evading his mind again and again, tries to temper the feeling of hatred he feels, tries to temper that fire, because fire destroys, and he can’t have any more destruction.

“… I try my best not to think of the maybes that won’t ever be because they are part of the past already. What would have been if I had not slain Aerys. If I had not joined the Kingsguard. If I had become heir of Casterly Rock as my Father wanted me to all along. What would have been if Cersei and I…,” he says, but then stops himself.

Brienne tries her best to keep her breath and gaze steady.

She knows it.

Where is the sense in denying it?

Where is the sense in running away from the reality that this is it?

Will always be it?

Was with Renly and now is again, with him.

_We don’t get to choose who we love_. And so we don’t get to choose who we love _especially_ if they are already meant to love someone else, have no other choice but to love that someone.

We have no choice in those matters.

No voice to speak.

Lacking the words.

Mouths forced shut.

Hands outstretched, reaching out, trying to grasp what seems to slip away at all times.

Hearts left open like a bleeding wound.

“What I am trying to say,” Jaime goes on, licking his lips, “is that I think you blame yourself by far too much for things beyond anyone’s control. You might be stronger than most, Brienne, but even you can’t take on an army single-handedly, or stop the world from turning. You shouldn’t blame yourself for the world being insane. That’s not your doing by any chance. You just live with the consequences the best you can. And that is all anyone can or should be permitted to ever ask of you.”

Jaime knows that he contributed to a lot of messes, but Brienne can’t be blamed for any of the hell he, his family, or anyone else’s family for the matter, broke loose.

“That still shouldn’t prevent one from trying,” Brienne argues mutely.

It doesn’t release you from a vow.

“… There is no sense in pondering those past maybes and what ifs. They are long since part of yesterday. I tend to think that… that we have to look ahead, no matter what is now part of the yesterday, of course… _minding_ it, so not to make the same mistakes all over, but… we can’t just stand still. I stood still for very long, so I should know.”

Stood outside chambers.

Kept the guard, no matter what King was having his fun inside his chamber with this whore or another.

Kept the family, or tried to.

But in the end, he became rigid along the way, stood still, unmoving.

Jaime knows he bathed in it, in his own self-hate, drawing blood every now and then as the invisible blade cut through his flesh at the mention of Aerys, wildfire, or when the people called him Kingslayer, to his face or whispered behind his back.

He stood still, treaded the same waters over and over. To no effect.

But then he was ripped out by force, tossed into territories he did not know, a muddy pen, a forest that seemed endless, and that forced him to move, forced him to make a leap forward, even if wrapped in chains and on a leash. But forward he moved, even if he moved back to King’s Landing in that way, he started moving from within. And _that_ made the difference. That he found a way to move out of himself.

Forward.

Ahead.

Brienne looks at him for a long moment. The way he talks of hope and tomorrows and possibilities makes her heart clench almost painfully. Because it sounds all so tempting, as though it was within her reach, when, deep down, Brienne knows it isn’t and won’t ever be.

“So… what will you do next?” Brienne asks, wincing as she shifts on the bed. Jaime tilts his head to the side, studying her.

“That is not entirely out yet.”

“Aren’t you… heading back home?” she questions hesitantly.

Jaime can’t help but wonder how a woman who he knows stands tall and strong and can outfight most men can seem as fragile as a scared deer, trying to escape the slightest of movements, the slightest of interruptions, anything disturbing the natural order of things.

“You mean King’s Landing,” he says.

Brienne shrugs her shoulders, wincing at the pull on her wound.

“Truth be told, there is nothing much to return to, so perchance my home by birth… which is Casterly Rock… is a better choice at this point,” Jaime replies slowly.

The words still taste unfamiliar on his tongue, but the taste is long since no longer as unpleasant as he remembers it to once have been.

“… the _King_ is there… and _she_ is there, too,” Brienne argues.

Everything he cares for… it’s there, in the Red Keep, waiting.

This makes no sense.

“And it seems to be the case that they are far better off without me, or even if not, my presence makes no difference to their safety, at least for the better. And in case of my sister… I do believe that I am more of a nuisance to her now.”

“What? Why?”

“That’d be a story way too long to cover now. Suffice to say… we had to realize that what we tried to hold up as a future was long since a story of the past.”

“You mean…”

“I think it’s for both our best now. While I didn’t think that way as I left King’s Landing behind me – for truly I was _anything_ but calm about the revelations made while I was there, I do believe so now… that… there is the physical distance, you see. As it appears, I was wrong in part, about an earlier statement of mine. Maybe we do get to choose after all.”

“But… she is your kin.”

It shouldn’t make sense, but for Brienne, in a twisted way, it does. Because she understands what it’s like to love someone you know you shouldn’t chase, not even in your wildest dreams, but still you find yourself running after that person no matter what, no matter how big the distance, no matter how thin the chances of ever catching up, of meeting, touching, being together.

Because that one force, perhaps the strongest one in the world entire to move a person even his or her body long since gave up, keeps you moving, keeps you running and running and running.

That is what she understands – because she is no different in that regard.

She knows that futile chase.

She’s run for so long.

“And for that I love her, and for what we had… that doesn’t disappear, but the thing is that over the years we rather loved pictures of each other instead of the actual person. I thought her something she was not, is not. I thought she was incapable of certain things… apparently, she is, and I reckon she had to see that I am not what she thought she saw in me all those years either.”

Brienne can do nothing but stare at him.

But that is the same man who was willing to murder only just to get back to her.

That is the same man she was sure wouldn’t ever have any other choice but to…

“But, but what of the King?” she asks.

Jaime’s smile is soft, if sad, the corners of his mouth strained, hard as they try to keep up.

It’s hurtful to realize that you are not… enough.

“The King is better off without my presence, I had to realize. The _rumors_ keep spreading, you see. Me being there only fuels these rumors, and those rumors are dangerous for Tommen.”

It’s painful to realize that your very presence is what puts who you want to protect at risk.

“What can I as a one-handed man do to protect him anyway? Not much… is the answer, as pitiful as it is. I am not swift with my sword, not swift enough to protect him from even a sellsword. So others will fulfil that task far better than I could at this stage. I trained, I am still nowhere close to being able to use that sword to protect him.”

Brienne looks at him. He knits his eyebrows.

Perhaps that’s destiny yet again playing her cruel japes at both their expenses. Both holding swords meant to protect, only to either wield them, bereft of the chance of protecting the person meant to be protected, for she is gone, beneath the snow and ice, or to wield them so miserably that no force comes with the blow, that no shield is built by that metal blade, when it once used to be a shield as tall as a person, not letting through, impenetrable, a wall that stayed unpassed, a wall that never came down.

Until it did.

“I tried to counsel him… thinking that maybe I could do that one thing… It backfired, badly. I acted against his wishes when he had sought out other plans without my knowledge. He is the King, he has a council with more capable advisors than myself. I don’t know if his plan will succeed… but no matter what, he isn’t listening to me. He feels betrayed, and I can’t blame him. When I advised others to treat him like a man, I ended up treating him like a child because I thought I had the perfect solution by marching on the Great Sept…”

Jaime had to realize that no matter his intentions, he failed Tommen because he couldn’t give him what he needed, and even if he thought he did, he did it the wrong way. Chaos was created where he wanted to bring harmony, dissonance where he thought he could bring unity.

The hardest part is admitting one’s own mistakes, but it’s equally as hard to admit that you are not needed as much as you’d want to be. That there are people who are better suited for the position you meant to take for yourself. That you can’t make a difference in the spot you have occupied either for years, or seized now that you thought you were finally ready for it.

It's wounding to realize that your place is not the place you thought it was.

It’s paining to realize that the space you took up rather stays unoccupied by yourself, or instead by someone else more apt for it.

It’s aching to accept that your place in the world is another than the one you thought you’d chosen for yourself, the one you’d fought for to keep so very hard.

It tears you apart to realize, to accept, that your place is not your place, is not your place to be.

“And even if not… I am of more use as Lord of Casterly Rock to him than I am as the Lord Commander. Because undeniably, a part of him, a _big_ part of him is Lannister. So _this_ is also his legacy. And so perhaps the best I can do is trying to build a new legacy for him, or reshape the old, to one that is more promising than the one Father left us with… the one we Lannisters all shaped and scraped away at all those years…”

That this might be your actual place to be…

Jaime had to realize that once he had command over the armies. While he wasn’t unfamiliar to the task, it was different now that his father was no longer there, the feeling that those men were his to command, would follow his orders, that he was responsible for them… That they addressed him as “Lord” all of a sudden.

And then, once Edmure had taken Riverrun to surrender it to the Freys and he was back in his tents, waiting for news on Brienne’s condition, Jaime felt that brief moment wash over him that maybe this was the one legacy he could build, craft with his own hand, instead of just mending what is on the verge of falling apart anyway. While the legacy of the Kingslayer no matter what, won’t ever fade away, one promising perhaps more of a future than he ever could just defending the Red Keep arose before his eyes.

He can change something here.

He can change something as Lord in ways he couldn’t as Lord _Commander_.

He cannot change the way people will look at him, but he can make House Lannister act differently. Prevent bloodshed rather than bringing it upon the people.

_That sort of thing, however it is going to look like in the future._

He can change House Lannister – because, while by force, Jaime chose this now, and that means he can change something about House Lannister at its core, instead of just trying to fashion wounds with bandages whilst not stopping the bleeding.

And change also means moving forward, not standing still.

Change means future, not past.

“I suppose I have been running from that responsibility long enough.”

“What is that supposed to mean? You took responsibility another way. You made an oath for life to…,” Brienne asks, but Jaime interrupts her in a soft voice. “To serve a King not deserving of anyone’s service. I joined the Kingsguard not out of noble reasons. I chose it because I wanted to be around her, and she convinced me that this was the means to get there. A part of me obviously thought about the Rock, but in the end, it didn’t matter as much to me. I didn’t think of my responsibility to my House as much as I felt like letting go of something I was entitled to anyway. That left House Lannister weak once my Father passed… and so it seems that this is a responsibility I ran from for far too long. If that is my legacy, and I suppose it is, then it is up to me now to carry on, to whatever future it may be.”

Brienne averts her gaze, mulling this over inside her head, which is difficult enough, as jumbled as her thoughts are, flitting back and forth like birds escaping the source of a loud noise.

“So you have no future plans?” Jaime then asks, looking at her. Brienne lets out a soft huff. “What is there to plan? I thought convincing the Blackfish of peaceful surrender was my mission, now it’s no longer. I don’t know, I don’t seem to have many choices left.”

She looks at him, trying to read his expression, but she cannot. He looks saddened somewhat, but also agitated, shifting in his seat.

“What if you did, though?” he asks quietly, his voice barely carrying over to her.

“What now?”

“If you were free to choose, no matter the circumstance, what would it be?” Jaime asks, his gaze not leaving her now.

“Other than undoing my mistakes from the past, you mean?” she snorts.

“Other than that, yes,” he chuckles softly.

Brienne bites her lower lip.She didn’t ask herself that question in a long time. It was always about what she _ought_ to do, what honor compelled her to do, oaths, promises, vows.

_What I want? What do I want? What? **Just what**? _

“I didn’t think about that… in a long time,” Brienne admits.

“Well, no harm in doing it now, is there?”

“I suppose there is _no harm_ in it, but neither is there any merit in it, is there?” Brienne argues, the corners of her mouth nervously flexing.

_Is it a smile?_

She doesn’t know, it just feels like even that part of her body aches.

Because it is pitiful beyond a word’s description to be that much of an empty casket, hollowed out of all promises and vows, wishes and wants, by inability and circumstance, until only this remained. A void without a name. A question of what could have been in there if only it wasn’t empty.

“Why so?”

“I can dream myself away in a wonderful, _wonderful_ world of course, where all is as I wish it to be – to what result, though? Only to realize that this is what I am not, what I won’t ever be, what I won’t ever have? You see… the last time I made a choice, I left my home isle to join Renly’s army – to then ask to be made one of his Kingsguard. That was what I wanted, and that is what I asked… that is what I got, for however shortlived it was.”

“Because you wanted to fight for the man you love,” Jaime says, and yet again, Brienne feels like his face lies behind a mask of mist that otherwise hangs low above the streams of Riverrun, swallowing all sound, all contours.

“The man I loved though I knew I’d never have him. Don’t take me for a fool, I knew that he wouldn’t ever have wanted me. But you see, that was the thing, already back then. I thought I had a choice, that this was my own free choice, free of circumstance. Because my feelings for him were true, but… do you want to know the pitiful truth?” she asks, huffing, scolding herself, laughing at herself, though the smile doesn’t reach her heart, her eyes, except for leaving them glistening at the shame of the truth in it.

Jaime just looks at her. Brienne draws in a shaky breath. “The pitiful truth is that I joined Renly because I thought that this is the best I can get. The pitiful truth is that this _is_ the best I can get. You know, I was betrothed, three times, one died still a young lad before we ever could get wed once we’d have come of age, the others I managed to scare off both with my looks and my very nature, so no one would ever try again, if only to mock me…”

She stops, not daring to look at Jaime. Brienne never meant to say that to him, to have him know. It’s pitiful enough in itself, it’s shameful enough that this is so.

But still, her words carry on, dribbling out of her like the waters from the streams.

 “I loved swordfight for all my life. I loved the joust, I loved horse riding. I loved a lot of things that normally, my brother would have been passionate about, had he lived a while longer. But… I also loved the very girlish things. Believe it or not, I liked to sing an dance back in the day.” She lets out a hollow laugh, but the words keep coming.

_The walls have crumbled anyway, so why bother to hold back the flood?_

“That was until I was brought to the realization that it looks queer on the likes of me. I made myself ridiculous, or so my Septa told me… So what I liked about sword fighting instead was that it is about skill, not about looks, you see. You can best a man in a fight looking as ugly as the most hideous beast in the world entire.”

_The ugliest girl alive. A great lumbering beast._

_Brienne the Beauty._

“It’s not that I wanted to run from marriage and all those things that other women are much better at than I am. I just saw that I wasn’t made of the required stuff. I reckon that if I had not been born this ugly, mannish woman I happen to be, I’d be a settled woman on Tarth, if with a fancy for sword fight, likely have some children and bother with the duties of running the isle rather than joining a Kingsguard or escort a man across Westeros to bring back to King’s Landing, no matter how much he loves to provoke me to anger," Brienne goes on, letting out another laughter ringing hollow. 

Jaime gives her the smallest of smiles, but otherwise keeps quiet, so not to interrupt her. 

“I felt like… that was the best I could get, with Renly, because… I was born this way, and not another, with that face and no one else’s. At any stage, that this is the only thing I would ever be… _good_ at, where I wouldn’t disappoint. I disappointed as a daughter, as an heir…," Brienne says, shaking her head. "You see, Ser, you are apparently not the only one who made a run from so such responsibilities… but the fact remains that… this is the best I could do to somehow… have worth… to carry back home.”

“You are worth more than…,” he means to say, but she is quick enough to interrupt him. “Than some of your most able men? Because I can best them in fight? Well, I suppose that might be true enough, but… the point is that when I made my last big choice, I did it because that is the best I could get. I could only hope for loving the man who treated me kindly, if only from a distance, devote myself to him wholly. To bring honor to my house by that measure. Because that is what I am, and that won’t change, my looks won’t change… for the better. And that is indeed pitiful. That this is the best I can get. That this is… all I am. That’s pitiful, not even deserving the pity.”

She can’t look at him, shame wearing her eyelids down.

And still, the streams of words keep running out of her mouth as though this cavity became a cave from which a well springs now, having burst away the stones, having brought enough fissures to the stones that seemed eternal, for all of the shameful, carefully protected words to pool beneath her, beside her, right for him to see, to hear.

To show him that this is who she is.

Will always be.

No more, no less.

“… So you asking me to imagine what I would do if I had a chance, if I could do however I pleased? It’s not getting me anywhere, because I know that _such_ is the best I can get. That for me, the only destiny I seem to have is to strive after the things I can’t have, to want the things I mustn’t have, to get perhaps close, very close, but never close enough. A world where I am free to choose would have to be one that doesn’t exist. Where women the likes of me are not frowned upon for their mere existence, where there is someone who would lo…,” she says, swallowing the words. “A world where I am free to choose is not there. It doesn’t exist. I don’t get to choose, because even if I choose, I am bound to either choose something I know I won’t ever have or I choose something like honor or vows that seem more graspable, but in the end, are thrown out of balance by outer forces beyond my control.”

Brienne sucks in a deep breath, no matter how much it aches her ribs.

“… You once said that we don’t get to choose who we love, and I suppose that this is true, but what is also true is that some people won’t ever get chosen for much of anything.”

“I will jump in at that moment, then,” Jaime says, straightening up a little, making Brienne frown again. “What now? Do you want to tell me that this is not so? When I was proven right in that assessment numerous times? Truly, don’t bother with false comforting words, I have no need for them.”

“Indeed,” he tells her. “You are wrong because there are people who’d choose you.”

“What? Did Ser Bronn ask if I had a castle to spare?” she snorts. “He seems the type.”

“No, though I guess he would,” Jaime chuckles. “… or may still try…”

“ _Right_. So now, who would, other than Ser Bronn eager to find himself a castle to settle down?” Brienne demands, though her voice lacks the strength.

She had chances of marriages of convenience before, but Brienne couldn’t find it in herself to settle for that, so she refused, over and over. Perhaps it was her foolery from her youth surviving to this very day that kept her at it, but Brienne always wanted to be loved by the man meant to wed her. But then the ball came, and she realized that it wouldn’t ever be, so she gave up on the distant hopes, chased her own love instead the fantasy of being loved, stuck to Renly, knowing he’d never desire her in a lifetime.

She became the knight of the stories she knows by heart since early childhood, instead of staying up in the tower as a maiden not-so-fair, waiting for a knight that never comes.

Brienne gave up all hopes of finding someone who’d love her – and to this day, she can’t find it in herself to settle for the lesser. Then she rather has neither. Even if she is to return to Tarth now, she’d rather go all alone instead of seeking convenience. For that, she underwent enough suffering by now.

But the thing is this: No one wants her, Brienne knows that. Those are not the tales getting told or being written, the tales to be remembered. Those are the never happy ending stories no one wants to hear.

_Who would?_

_Who would dare?_

_Who would…?_

Suddenly, Brienne feels something warm against her lips taking her breath away, ripping the thoughts and inner screams away from her, stopping the streams from flowing, leaving only just one thought: _Jaime_.

Brienne just stares, her world out of focus, out of place.

_How would he?_

_How would he…?_

But the warmth of the touch, of his lips brushing against hers seem to douse those questions as though they were small candles ready to be blown out. There is a tenderness to this touch that she has never felt before, a touch she thought she wouldn't ever witness, share. And Brienne finds herself getting lost in that small, yet so very intimate touch, brush of the lips, a step forward where Brienne believed every other man would always take a step back.

Jaime pulls away slightly, though Brienne can still feel the heat radiating from his forehead, seeping right into her own, bringing her to shudder.

“Now, do _you_ want to hear a pitiful story?” Jaime asks, still only inches from her.

She can’t answer.

She can only look.

Not understand.

Just see.

“The pitiful tale of a man who has fallen in love with a woman who’s made a sport of it to push him around and force some many uncomfortable truths down his throat, on a troublesome passage to King’s Landing, only to have to realize that he’d die for her, at the paws of a bloody bear if he must, or at a bastard’s rusty sword if need be?”

For Cersei, he was willing to kill, but for Brienne, so Jaime knows now, sees now, hears it resonating in his own chest as the words keep tumbling out, he was and is willing to die and live at the same time.

_“You must live.”_

And so he did.

_“Just get her out of there.”_

And when Locke didn’t, so did he.

One should think that being willing to kill for someone is the same as being willing to die for someone, but it’s not. Just like it’s not the same to be willing to give your life up for someone’s affection as it is to go on living when you have already given up on yourself.

It’s something different to have someone believe in your future when you already gave up on any prospect a long time ago.

It’s something entirely different to have someone look at you and see in you the man you can become instead of the man you once were, the man you are, right at this moment, but never beyond.

It’s something entirely different to have someone look at you with hope, Jaime had to learn.

He’d give his life for Brienne, if only to know her safe.

“But who was too blind to realize it for an _achingly_ long time because the pitiful truth is that he’d know what love is, but not what falling in love is like. Who’d rather send that woman away on a quest, hoping to keep her out of danger, only to toss her into perhaps an even greater peril than his sister ever would have posed,” Jaime goes on.

He wouldn’t ever have thought that he could tell those words right at that moment, when they were disclosed from him himself for such a long time, brought to the surface the moment on she writhed in his arms by the drawbridge, and brought back to the surface, for him to see, when he sneaked around the tent, until he stopped longing and entered, spent as many hours as he could sitting by her side to wait for her to awaken, to return to him. 

“What?” Brienne whispers, her voice impossible small, the smallest of birds, stuck in her hands, stuck in her mouth.

“Do you sincerely think I sent you away _only just_ to chase Sansa? The chance was achingly small from the very beginning that you’d even find her. I saw my sister at the wedding, how she talked to you. She had an eye on you. And I know what my sister does with people she set an eye on… I had to get you out of King’s Landing. That conclusion was straightforward enough. But the thing is… truth be told, had I not been as blind as I was, I should’ve just saddled my horse and rode off with you… or something like that,” Jaime replies.

Brienne still can do nothing but stare at him. This makes no sense. This cannot be.

“So you tell me, isn’t it a pitiful story of a man who sends away that one woman he’d die for, only to have her tossed into the next danger, only to have her inside a castle with a man whose grief made him apparently forget common sense… only to have her believe that death is her only choice? When that is what this pitiful man jumped into a bear pit for to prevent from happening? What a pitiful story is _that_? Still failing to say when really, it should have been on the tip of his tongue all along?”

Brienne’s eyes just stare, her lips parted slightly, drawing in shallow breaths bringing her chest to heave as high and low as mountains and valleys.

Is she just having a fever dream?

Will she wake up any second now, alone in the tent, with only furs as the one source of warmth? And if so, does she want to? Or does she want to linger?

“So… you think you have no choice because no one would ever want to choose you in turn. You stand corrected. If only I could, I would,” Jaime goes on, his voice shaking, choking, but still strong enough to shake her in turn.

The walls crumble, collapse, keep falling.

“What do you mean?” Brienne brings out.

“Just because I finally forced myself into those realizations doesn’t mean that I am supposed to get what I want, that I am entitled to… much of anything. Because what I want…,” he explains, before he Jaime goes ahead to squeeze her hand.

_It’s you. Always. And I should have seen that a long time ago, Brienne._

Brienne just stares at him, trying to comprehend what her body already seems to understand as she finds her own fingers tightening around his.

_Warm_ , she thinks. _This can’t be a dream, can it? For that it feels too warm, too real._

“But it should be up to you. It _has_ to be up to you. _You_ have to choose. So I ask you to think about what you want because… you shouldn’t go on in the false belief that you have no choice,” Jaime goes on to explain. “You do.”

Brienne blinks, she can do nothing much else but blink, stare, in disbelief, shuddering, gaping, breathing.

_But we don’t get to choose… I don’t get to choose. That is…_

“If what you want is that pitiful, one-handed, rather bitter man, for _whatever_ the reason, because I often fail to figure… don’t think you can’t have what you want. You could have it all if only you said it. If you wanted, it’d be yours, it’d always be yours.”

He licks his lips.

_I’d be yours. I’d always be yours._

It’s curious almost, how the words keep tumbling into the world now, after they were hidden behind walls he built within himself over the years, around that beating, bleeding pound of flesh residing in his chest not ready to give up just yet because there is still might in his body.

How easy it seems when he believed it a thing of impossibility, a matter he had no choice in, no say.

_Because we don’t get to choose, do we?_

Yet here he is, and Jaime found a voice to speak, speak the words so long neglected, left unspoken, hidden, out of view, within grasp, but only just almost, a brush against the fingertips, no more.

Yet here he is, walls crumbled, walls fallen, bare.

Yet here he is, unafraid because it’s future Jaime sees, it’s future he has to see happening.

_Hers_. He just has to see _her_ future happening.

And that is all that matters.

“But if not… which is… perfectly acceptable and understandable, given the circumstances… Whatever you want, I will see to it that it happens, to the best of my abilities. If you want to go back home, back to Tarth, I will find you ship to sail back to the Sapphire Isle, which is… beautiful, I can now say so for myself, having seen it myself from far…,” he says, offering a sad if gentle smile. “If you want to stay with the Tullys… even if I may add that I would _not like_ it because I still want to lynch most of them, and one in particular, I will see to it that this happens, too, and that you will be treated the best possible. If you want to go to the Rock, I will see you off to the Rock. If you want to go on searching for Arya, I will have horse and provisions provided for you to set out on a new journey. You can take Pod and some guards with you if you liked. Whatever you want.”

He gives her hand another squeeze that has Brienne trembling to her very core.

She swallows, trying to comprehend the words evading her ears, nestling themselves in the midst of her mind, no matter her struggle, no matter the voice shouting in the pit of her stomach: _He cannot! You cannot! That simply cannot be! Don’t listen to those lies! You don’t get to choose! He can’t choose you!_

And the voice keeps growing fainter and fainter and fainter… replaced by his voice, warm, shaking, strong, weak, everything and nothing at the same time.

“You have options, Brienne, chances, choices open to you. You get to choose. Whatever you want, you can choose it. Whatever future you want, you can have it. Because… that is _not_ the best you can get, but the best _I_ can give you, despite the fact that you’d deserve _much_ more than I have to offer. You are worth so much more, but that is… the best _I_ can give you, which does not prevent me from offering it anyway, because that is all _I_ have,” he says, his voice quivering, yet coming out with such a strength that it still takes Brienne’s own breath away, steals it like the smallest yet strongest of thieves.

As much as Jaime would want her to choose what would be his choosing, as much as he wants to offer her more than what he has in his hands, one of flesh, one of gold, that is all he has to give, all he has to offer.

_“I have one more gift.”_

A broken man who realizes things almost too late, if not too late already, who is marked with a name, branded with it, who murdered and betrayed, neglected, slipped away from responsibilities, slipped away from himself, who he used to be, and will only ever be… this man right before her.

Or whatever meager option Jaime can bring forth, granted circumstances, reality kicking them down. He can’t give her Sansa back, he can’t give her Cat back, Renly, the options stolen from her by a world so much at disarray also thanks to his own doing.

“But the most important thing is this: I ask you to choose yourself, Brienne. Choose yourself and what _you_ want, instead of measuring your worth with the men who were foolish enough not to take you when they could have. You’ve knocked them into the dust because you were better than them by far, including this pitiful man right in front of you,” he says, offering a small smile. “So don’t compare yourself, don’t measure yourself with them, you exceed any so such measure. Choose yourself, and don’t you ever dare think again that you have to make yourself small because of other people’s voices, whispers. That is one of the few things my Father was perhaps always right about: Don’t concern yourself with the opinions of the sheep, for no more should they be to you. Let them whisper, let them laugh. They won’t ever know your worth, but I have seen it, so I know it true. Choose yourself. Choose however you please. Because you can. Because you are allowed to. Because you deserve to. So… dare to choose.”

_Choose!_

“You mean that,” Brienne whispers, now looking at him with her brilliant blue eyes, truly like the bluest of waters being swept to the shores of the isle of Tarth.

“Every word of it.”

“So you… do…” She swallows.

Brienne had people trust her - for better or worse. The likes of Pod even seems to admire her for some strange reason. But Brienne never had someone put faith in her future. she never had anyone demand of her to choose herself. Brienne is used to being told that she aims too high, aims for the wrong, should demand less, should be satisfied with what she has. But here Jaime sits, glancing at her, eyes glistening, and he speaks all those words that should be impossible, but suddenly are no longer.

Jaime laughs, but then looks at her with such an intensity that Brienne can feel prickles ghosting over her skin, leaving every fine hair standing upright.

“Love you?” he completes.

The words just hang there for a second, right before their eyes, not tumbling, but floating, as though they got their wings, as though the strings were cut and they learned to fly.

“Yes. Even if it took me a thousand miles of travel, countless wrong decisions, lousy choices, and a lot of brooding… _yes_ ,” Jaime says, resolution in his voice where he didn’t expect it. "Yes, I love you."

Brienne opens her mouth, but no sound comes out, no matter how much she tries.

Those words should be impossible, all those words should not be real, yet they are, and more than anything, Brienne wants to hold them close and never let go again, all those hopes she gave up a long time ago, whenever the looked into the looking-glass, whenever she vowed but failed, whenever she didn't manage to keep a promise.

“Because when I think of you, when I see you, I see a future, rather than staring back in the hope to catch a glimpse of the past, which I did for far too long. You made me strive towards a future when I didn’t think I had one. You made me see something in myself that I thought was long since part of the past, never meant to be raised back to life again. You made me see that I can change – me, and things beyond me. You made me see what I can become, rather than just who I was, who I am. When I look at you, I see hope. I see all those things that people not like us don’t give much on. Honor. Vows. But most important is the hope. The promise of a future. I see it when I look at you.”

Brienne’s mouth opens in reply, but the words won’t come as her vision grows cloudy, blurred.

She cannot speak.

She cannot think.

No dream, no fantasy driven by fever.

Reality.

Truth.

Simple, small, yet great, beyond any measure.

“So even if… you want to go some other way,” Jaime goes on, fearing that if he doesn't say those things now, he won’t ever again, “which I’d _well_ understand, I think you should know, so that you don’t ever make yourself small again, if only inside your mind. For that you are too tall, for that you stand too strong, Brienne. You deserve any chance, and you deserve any choice. You are by far more worth than the love the Kingslayer can ever give you, but that doesn’t make it less true.”

Brienne can feel the salty water dancing on her lashes, the streams of her mouth unable to let any more water seep through.

“So maybe it took us all that suffering to get to the point, I don’t know, but… _this_ is the truth, and I am done denying it, to myself, or anyone else. I want to build a future, or try to at least, and for that… future is the only concept I can think of. For that… you are the only thing on my mind. But… your future is yours, and it is not up to me to make any more choices within it, without your permit. So ask yourself, what do _you_ want? And once you see what you want – take it. Make the choice, I will see to it that it happens. Because beyond my own future, or that of my House, I want to see _your_ future happening. I _need_ you to have a future, Brienne. Because without you as some part of it, now distant or close by… there is no future for me.”

He saw it when she was in his arms on the verge of death. The mere thought of her future lost tore him apart. Brienne has to continue, that is the one thing Jaime knows. Whether it is with him or without him, he doesn’t care at all too much, but the important thing is that Brienne continues, carries on.

_She must live. Not just survive, but live._

Brienne would like to think of the words to express, to mean what lingers behind crumbled walls, crawls across it like water rising to a tide, a storm, but she doesn’t have the words. She cannot grasp them, but still Brienne reaches out, with the one weapon she has available to her, at all times, her body is not tied down by the words, and so she brings herself to move.

Move forward.

To him, his lips, to say with the cave containing all that which lies inside what her voice cannot utter at this moment, flooded by emotion, flooded by things beyond a word’s grasp. She doesn’t have the words to explain something hidden so deep within her soul that she long since forgot about it being there. And neither does she need to, or so it seems.

Because she gets to choose.

Not just what she wants, who she wants, but also the way in which to express it.

Breathlessly, she holds on to that moment, to him, ignoring that she is likely all clumsy, moves all wrong, has chapped lips that are no pleasant sensation. She ignores it all as he keeps pullling her closer, careful not to move too rashly to cause her any pain, his touches as soft as those of a feather. Brienne ignores everything around her, around them, and only focuses on a touch she thought she would never witness, let alone find the courage to give out - and have returned. 

“So is that your choice?” Jaime asks, voice quivering, once she pulls away only ever so slightly, still seizing the moment, chasing it, needing to hold on to it in the still present fear that if she draws away, it will come apart, this fragile string of warmth lying between them only inches from each other.

Brienne nods, simply nods. Jaime just smiles at her, squeezing her hand gently.

A moment passes, two, three.

Both lingering in it, letting it wash through them, after it seemed out of reach for far too long. 

Jaime leans his forehead against her temple slightly, taking solace in the fact that she doesn’t flinch away from him, a familarity growing out of nowhere, yet growing strong, reaching high above to engulf them, keep them close. 

“You can’t imagine my relief, or else I would have made a rather pitiful fool of myself,” he says, chuckling softly, eyes glistening with tears unshed.

Jaime never thought he could feel this way, but he does, he can feel it rushing through him with every breath he takes.

“No, no fool,” Brienne argues, her voice soft, almost not audible. “Or if so, it’d make a fool of us both.”

“We band together after all, or so it seems,” he laughs, an easy laugh that seems to makes his chest rise in weightlessness, as though the heavy stones from the walls within him now also tumbled to the ground, burst to dust, taken away by an invisible gust. 

They keep close, neither one speaking a word, their breaths evening out, soon enough sounding as one, chests rising and falling in perfect synchrony.

“KNOCK! KNOCK!” a voice rings out.

And at once, the moment seems to have ended, future having caught up to a moment lingering in limbo.

Jaime rolls his eyes as he turns towards the entrance.

_The Gods could have given us a few more moments, couldn’t they?_

“Come in, Bronn,” he calls out, making his annoyance no secret.

And in strides the sellsword, a crooked grin on his lips, thumbs hooked in the loops of his belt as he approaches. 

“Ha, I thought I’d rather _knock_ than catch you doing something _improper_. You know I can’t keep any gossip to myself,” he says with a dirty grin.

“For which I am so very glad,” Jaime huffs, narrowing his eyes. “So now, what brings us the honor of your presence?”

Bronn ignores him, craning his neck slightly to take a look at Brienne, who just glances back at him quizzically.

“Ah, so it’s true the lady’s awake. Pleased to see you back under the living. Would have been a pity to lose the likes of you, m’lady. I heard you beat the Hound’s ass? I think we need more the likes of you around here,” Bronn laughs throatily. “The rest is rather pitiful for all I can tell. Maybe you can beat some sense into them once you’re back to health.”

“… Thank you…,” Brienne replies slowly. “… I suppose.”

“Bronn, you came here for a purpose, you said?” Jaime scaffolds, gesturing at him to return to the topic on hand.

“Oh, yes, indeed. Apparently, a raven arrived for you… and a messenger from the North with another message. He’s said that it’s for the Blackfish alone. We caught the little bastard from the cold lands sneaking around the camps in the vain hope of somehow getting through to the old bastard. Was easy enough a catch. I suppose you wouldn’t want to see that in the hands of the old man until you approved of it, huh?”

“You did well, as always. But really, two messages within a single day?” Jaime can’t help but frown.

“Same thought I had, but yes, two. You are such an important man, aren’t you, Lord of Casterly Rock?” Bronn huffs. Jaime gestures at him to hand him the parchments, which the sellsword does, flashing another lopsided smile at the two. “Well, I reckon it’d be best to leave you two to your… _business_.”

“Bronn,” Jaime says, his voice low, threatening, but not too much.

“If you still believe any of this to be _secretive_ , you are even more of a fool than I took you to be,” the sellsword snorts, unimpressed.

Brienne tilts her head. From what she knows of the man, he is rather straightforward, but… he is even more so than she believed him to be.

“Just get out and help yourself to some ale or mead for the good catch you made today by preventing that message from reaching the Blackfish in all your bravery as a knight,” Jaime tells him. “And make sure no harm’s done to the messenger who’s come from the North. And be sure to leave the Freys unaware of the business. I don’t want any more trouble around here. This peace is fragile enough in itself.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice so long I know you cover my expanses. I will drink to you, m’lady,” Bronn says with a grin, tapping his index finger against his forehead. “And take Pod with me. The boy’s going to be _overjoyed_! And hopefully more open to drink, thus.”

“Do that…,” Brienne replies, yet again more at a loss.

And with that the sellsword disappears again as he quickly strides out of the tent. Jaime shakes his head as he turns back in his chair to look back at Brienne.

“I will have to hit him for that later on,” he huffs. “But for now… if you allowed?”

Jaime gestures at the parchments.

“Of course,” she agrees, nodding her head. Before he can even make the attempt, Brienne is quick enough to open the seals wordlessly for him.

“Thank you,” he says before his eyes drift to the first message, amused at how easily they seem to fall back into a routine long since forgotten, but that seemingly never disappeared completely.

“What does it say?” Brienne asks, lips curling into an uncertain frown.  

“Winter’s come, so the Citadel proclaims. Huh. That had to come at some point, I reckon,” Jaime says, wrinkling his nose. “Though it still comes earlier than I… expected.”

“And the one from the North?” Brienne asks, the air catching in her throat.

Small wonder, he reckons. A message from the North, from where Sansa fell, it must tear up those wounds not yet healed all over.

Jaime lets his eyes wander over the parchment once, twice.

“… You may want to read that one yourself,” he says, holding it out to her.

“You are sure?”

“Yes, read it.”

Brienne takes it, but her eyes are still fixed on his. “But that letter is not meant for me.”

“And neither is it meant for me,” Jaime argues with a grin.

Even now, that woman would see the dishonor in reading someone else’s messages.

“But the Blackfish only gets the information I choose. He has forgone those rights the moment on he took up that bow,” he goes on to say, his voice growing darker as the images come back to him, but he is pulled back out of the darkness, over to the lightness of her eyes as he finds her squeezing her hand, hesitantly, but gently no less. “So I read his messages, and if I say that you should read it – you are free to read it.”

Her eyes drift over to the message in her lap, her fingers curling around the parchment, twisting it between thumb and index finger as her eyes keep dancing over the message written in hasty letters and dark ink.

“That… that can’t be…,” she stammers, staring at the parchment in her hand as though it just dispersed before her eyes.

“Apparently, it can,” Jaime argues, offering a small smile.

“But that is…," Brienne whispers, voice shaking, eyes glistening, no longer caring to hide her weakness, to hide away the tears. 

“The question now is… what do we do with that information?”

“I, I don’t know, this is… I don’t know.” She shakes her head. 

“Well, I have an idea by contrast, then,” Jaime says. “If you were open to hearing me out?”

“Of… course,” Brienne replies slowly, trying to hold on to the certainty he radiates, because for her, right at this moment, all future seems so uncertain, so new, when she believed that all was set into stone for years already, that she just wants to drift for a while, wants him to pull her along until she finds her footing again.

“But you’d have to trust me,” he goes on.

“I trust you,” she tells him, the words so easy on her tongue, within her heart.

_The one truth I know for certain._

He smiles at her.

To think that even now she can… it should be impossible, but no less is it real. What seemed impossible back when Jaimesaid he trusted her in the bathtub in Harrenhal is now reality. Their truce is what is real now.

“But… for that we’d have to see the Blackfish, once you are well enough.”

“ _We_?” Brienne repeats, licking her chapped lips, still humming from their last kiss.

“That man is at your mercy, not mine,” Jaime explains simply. “If he were at mine, he’d hang from the walls of Riverrun.”

“Jaime,” she insists, but he interrupts her in a soft tone, “Which is why I leave him to _your_ mercy instead of mine. I’d have little to spare for the old bastard. He hurt you, he almost killed you. For that he likely deserves far less mercy than you and I would grant him.”

“I didn’t die,” Brienne insists.

She is alive, against all odds.

Everything that happened just now, all the words spoken, the touches shared, they are real against all those odds surrounding them, closing in on them, lurking outside the tent.

“But you died almost,” Jaime argues, his voice almost breaking as he speaks. He squeezes her hand again, stronger this time, with more urgency. “And I can’t tolerate that. I can’t have that, ever again.”

He couldn’t bear it.

_Ever again._

“In times such as these, ruling that out seems a thing of impossibility.”

Winter has come. The Riverrun Siege took quite a few unexpected turns. The odds are still against pretty much anything they see sparking up in the distance of the time still to come.

If they can lose their lives in a bear pit, at a rusty blade cutting through a hand, a single arrow’s head… then who is to say what awaits them in the near or distant future? Who is to say that there is a way of preventing the inevitable a while longer?

“And as this should prove us, the impossible seems to be a rather shaky concept. If _this_ can happen… what is even impossibility?” Jaime argues, smiling at her. She smiles back at him, softly, gently, the sensation about as foreign to her mouth as was the kiss.

_And perhaps Jaime has the rights of it._

The impossible seems to be future now.

When it used to be the measure dictating most options out of grasp, out of reach, not her, not his, not theirs.

They live an impossible future now.

One made possible.

Real.

True.

“… Then we should talk to the Blackfish soon,” she says, finding more resolution in her voice – because it’s his future she wants to join, has to join, because that is her choice now, and she wants to live by it, to whatever destination it will be.

“It can wait for at least a while longer. Till you are better,” Jaime argues, offering a gentle smile.

“I don’t have to fight him, do I?” Brienne argues, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

She can’t remember the last time she smiled for longer than the blink of an eye, a short moment, but now? Smiling seems so much easier.

Suddenly, it’s as easy as breathing.

“I don’t think he’d stand a chance against you even now, but…,” Jaime chuckles, though she interrupts him, “We shouldn’t waste our time, don’t you think? This is… _urgent_. And I am not that fragile, you know that.”

She is not the maiden from the fairytales, no matter the future she may have chosen. Some circumstances remain unchanged.

“You are fragile indeed,” Jaime argues, grasping her hand again. “But strong enough to cover up for it most of the time.”

Brienne blinks at him. How is it that this man knows her so well when they have spent so much time apart, she wonders, but knows no answer to.

“I can do it. We should see him,” she insists.

“And there is the stubborn woman I remember,” Jaime laughs.

“I do mean it. I can do it. If he is well, we should see him.”

“Well, if my lady commands…,” Jaime says with a grin, enjoying the sound of that "my lady," with all of its implications now. “I will have everything arranged. As far as I know, he can stand and walk again, so I will just have him come here.”

“Well, then the arrangements should be made.”

“Little time from now, yes,” Jaime chuckles softly. “Do not fret.”

“But…”

Suddenly, he cups her chin to bring her lips back to his, and Brienne finds herself simply getting lost in a touch still foreign, so new, yet so intimate, so strangely familiar, because it’s him, the one man she likely knows better than any other man she has ever made the acquaintance of outside her family. She sinks into his touch, its gentleness, the insecurity thrumming as they get used to each other. 

“I think we can spare a moment or two,” Jaime laughs against her lips. And Brienne finds herself smiling as well.

If the impossible is possible, then so they can steal a moment or two… o _r maybe three_.

They have waited for that for so long, even when they didn’t know they were waiting for just that moment… it’d be a waste to leave it neglected, to dream away of a future for a short while, existing between chapped lips brushing against each other, uncertain touches growing bolder the more the walls formerly standing up high around them disperse, turn to ashes blown away by the winds. 

It'd be a waste to leave this small, private chance neglected to be true to their choice.

Because they got to choose who they love. 

And so they chose.

Free to choose, yet bound to choose one another.

Because they choose themselves by choosing each other.


	8. Epilog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blackfish is to face judgment at the hands of the person at whose mercy he is. 
> 
> Messages are revealed. 
> 
> Futures are built on fragile grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around despite the horrible update schedule (considering that this was meant as part of the JB Appreciation Week long, long time ago), but life has been all kinds of a mess, keeping me from most of my WIPs. I wished it were all different, but my mind and heart were at a lot of disarray, particularly as of late with a tragedy in the family hitting us hard, very hard. 
> 
> Anyway, this epilog is meant to wrap things up. Mind you, I am straight into canon divergence here, therfore the times are also rearranged to make them fit into the current timeline. Needless to mention that this story was written and composed by a time when season 7 was not yet out. While this chapter now includes stuff from both season 6 and 7, I also changed it vastly to make it fit into my story. So yeah, canon divergence galore. 
> 
> As part of the "Finish it February," I actually finish this one in January, so... at least it's done now. I hope you will enjoy the epilog to this tale.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Brynden is more than irritated once the sellsword who shot him on the bridge comes into his tent, telling him to put on something warm to “take a little trip around the camp”. He is not surprised by a few more soldiers pouring into his prison without bars alongside the black-haired man with a wicked grin.

“And just so that we understand each other – escaping ain’t a smart thing to do. You wouldn’t make it far… and I’d rather not chase an old man around the camp. Even I have my standards. So… you know, just don’t.”

The Blackfish doesn’t reply, instead gets up to grab the overcoat that was given to him, struggles into it, wincing at the strain on his injured shoulder, before he stands steadily enough not to give away how weak his entire being feels.

“No chains?” he asks, once Bronn takes him by the arm to lead him out of the tent.

“I wouldn’t think too highly of myself if I were you,” Bronn snorts. “You chain those you fear are a match to you. Your injury will prevent you from doing anything stupid, won’t it? So why bother with the chains?”

_That’s right. You only chain up those that pose a danger, a threat._

And the Kingslayer made one thing clear – he means nothing to him.

_Not even a threat anymore._

So much to his sweet, yet very bitter resistance.

Brynden watches with a grimace as he passes through the rows of red tents that made his stomach curl so long he stood on the walls of Riverrun, glancing down at those streaks of red cutting through familiar green, those intruders, the monsters in lions’ skins.

But now that he passes through, Brynden sees men who look like his own. Gambling, drinking, laughing, cleaning their helmets, their boots, rolling the dice, patting horses on the back as they move along, helping each other unpack a cart or carry a chest from one tent to the other.

It’s curious how perspective seems to alter perception, how a different angle can bring about a new way to look at things, when you are so accustomed to seeing things in only just that one way that you know, the one way that you understand, no matter the grief it caused you already.

How monsters seem so tall from one spot, but so very small from another.

How monsters turn human once you see them no longer from afar, but come to stand on the same level as them, look them in the eye instead of just glancing at the tip of their spears.

_Even if you yourself may still be the one true monster in this strange tale._

“Where are you taking me?” Brynden asks, his eyes still transfixed on the strange normalcy around him.

“Not to the brothels, that much is for sure,” Bronn snorts as they go on.

The Blackfish grimaces. That man got his instructions from the Kingslayer, _obviously_. So to leave him unaware, to leave him wondering to where he is to go, to stay.

A game of control.

“Where is Edmure?” he goes on to question.

“Not in the brothels either… Aaaaand we take a turn to the left,” Bronn huffs, pulling the Blackfish along. He catches a glimpse at the castle in the distance, at Riverrun, his home, the place he wanted to die in. It still looks the same, yet absolutely different. The banners of the Freys mocking him even from a distance, laughing at him as they hiss in the wind.

Their reward for murder and betrayal.

A castle, readily provided, the seats still warm.

_Where is the justice in that?_

But then Brynden remembers that this world is one of injustices, _is it not_?

And perhaps that is why it would have been better if only he’d died in it rather than being bound to look on as the wheels continue to turn. The Blackfish is not made of flexible stuff. He is made of stone and oak, of steel and lead. Why not let him drown in the waters of Riverrun so he does not have to watch on as the injustice flows around the castle? So he can forget about his own injustices?

The one with big blue eyes staring at him foremost, as she lied on the bridge, gaping, gasping for air, for life itself as her body writhed on its own accord, in the Kingslayer’s arms, cradled, like a broken ragdoll, fading away, growing dimmer by the second as red pooled beneath her, seeping into the bridge, his home, himself.

Because in her eyes Brynden saw the injustice caused by no one other but himself, he saw it staring right back at him, reflecting in the pools of her gaze. All of that betrayal. All of that bad blood seeping out of him as the crimson pooled beneath him – and her. A pitiful proof that this man is of flesh, _weak_ flesh, after all.

That her eyes chase him in his dreams now is perhaps the one justice befitting the injustice Brynden handed out to the only living daughter of the Evenstar.

_If her honorable father does not hear of it, travels all the way to the Riverlands, and has the mercy to chop my head off in one mighty strike, that is._

“Aaaaand we are there,” Bronn announces, pulling the Blackfish out of his thoughts, back to the reality of standing in front of one of the Lannister tents. Judging by the size and décor, it should be that of the Kingslayer.

“So, just to be clear,” Bronn says, turning to him, nodding at the soldiers around him. “You do something stupid, those guys jump you… and likely kill you. They get paid to keep their lord’s ass safe. And in any case… why waste your time with something we all know you won’t achieve? I mean, even on the bridge you didn’t manage.”

“I won’t do anything,” Brynden grumbles.

_It’d be pointless anyway. It’s over. It’s done. The battle is lost. Everything is lost._

“Such a good not-lord you are,” Bronn chimes, patting him on the back mocking before he leads him into the tent, the soldiers taking their position around it like gargoyles.

_Well, at least they bother with that much protection against a man not posing a threat deserving of chains._

Brynden spots the Kingslayer at once, coming towards him with fast strides, with that sort of cocksure grin he’d still rather punch out of him, but knows is no use – and neither not the time. Not after all that happened.  

“Ser Brynden, have a seat. We have important matters to discuss,” Jaime announces, his voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the air effortlessly. “I will take it from here, Bronn.”

“Make it quick, I don't want to cool my heels, waiting for you to be done talking,” the Blackfish huffs.

“I will be as brief as possible, though I can’t make any promises… and upon reflection, I don’t care to make it short, really,” Jaime huffs, taking Brynden’s uninjured arm to lead him on the way Bronn did before as the sellsword exits the tent again. The Blackfish grimaces as Jaime walks him over to a chair likely set up for him beforehand.

All seems so arranged, as though he was just a chess piece on a checkerboard.  

“Sit.”

No request, a demand.

Brynden doesn’t struggle, rather welcoming the seat offered to him, his bones still aching. He is most definitely getting too old for all of this.

“So? What have you had me summoned for?” the Blackfish asks directly, wanting to come down to business. He was never a man to tiptoe around a topic, and he won’t start now.

“You will find out in due time,” Jaime says, standing before him, _towering_ above him now that Brynden is seated. “As I said, you only get what I want you to get, once I find it fit.”

The Blackfish says nothing. There is no sense in arguing. He is a prisoner now, like Edmure was… _still is, this way or another_ … at the mercy of a man believed to be without any mercy, slaying Kings, being part of the family that slaughtered his.

“Will you just go on staring at me?” Brynden huffs.

“If it pleases me? Though… I can’t say it’s very entertaining to look at you,” Jaime argues, tilting his head to the side.

“Which proves my point that we shouldn’t waste your oh so valuable time,” the Blackfish replies, to which the younger man only wrinkles his nose with a light huff. “You still make for a lousy hostage.”

“I hope so,” Brynden snorts.

Jaime’s laugh rings empty, chilling the Blackfish’s bones. That’s the last resort he has, however meager it may be. That shriveled bit of honor, of pride, brought to fall by big blue eyes, is the only resort he has, the one thing keeping him upright in his seat.

“I can actually relate to that,” Jaime huffs. “As far as I recall, I made sure to be one likewise, back in the day.”

“You most definitely did,” Brynden replies, but then his gaze drifts to the side as images return to him, rising to his eyes as though a flood rose beneath his feet, all the way up to his head. His voice softens. “Any news of her?”

“Brienne, you mean?” Jaime asks.

“Who else would I be talking about? Of course her,” the Blackfish hisses, a chill running through him as images of her lying on the bridge flood back into his mind. “Any news? Just tell me if she…”

That is when Jaime steps aside, revealing what was out of Brynden’s view the whole time. A bed, and someone in it, a loose tunic so not to rub against the wound, blue in color, like the eyes, so familiar yet so strange.

But awake.

There.

Not gone.

“I am alive,” she says simply. The Blackfish can do nothing but stare at her for a long moment, before his head feels so heavy that he has to bow it.

“I know it must sound laughable coming from me, but… I am glad to see you alive, Lady Brienne,” he says. She replies nothing in return, just looks on, he doesn’t even have to check, the Blackfish can feel her eyes on him, piercing right through him.

Jaime is the one to break the silence first, balancing back and forth on his heels, visibly growing impatient. “So… Brienne, as the Maester confirmed, will hopefully be soon back to health. And as I told you, you are at _her_ mercy, not mine. Your life lies in her hands. Your life depends on her mercy for you, or the lack thereof. Nothing else seems to serve justice, I believe.”

Jaime can see the wheels turning in the old man’s head at only just the mention of the word, but _yes_ , this _is_ justice. The only justice he can grant, and will grant to the man who almost took her away from this life.

_From me._

“Everything else, concerning the Tully army, Riverrun, and Lord Edmure on the other hand… happens to be for me to decide,” Jaime goes on.

“ _Happens_?” Brynden repeats with a huff.

“Well, the siege is over. You lost. The Lannister armies took Riverrun on behalf of the Freys. That means it is up to House Lannister to deal with the aftermath of the siege. So yes, it _happens_ to be the state of affairs that this duty falls upon me.”

And as such Jaime sees it – his duty, his duty to take Riverrun to his conditions, and to leave it to his conditions.

He is Lord of Casterly Rock now, and as much as Jaime despises politics, he is a part of it now, so it seems to be high time that he makes politics according to his own rules, within the boundaries of the wheel turning round and round.

“You mean escorting my men to the Twins to rot in black cells like thieves?” Brynden growls.

“On the contrary, I assume it will be to your relief to know that Lord Edmure and I came to an agreement I believe fitting the circumstances,” Jaime replies coolly.

“And what would that be? Or is that yet again something you won’t share with me?”

“I will share it with you, since that will likely determine the choice you are about to make.”

“I get a choice?” the Blackfish snaps. “Now that’d be new.”

“I would quit that cocky tone if I were you. You are truly in no position for such, _Ser_ ,” Jaime snarls, his eyes gleaming at Brynden in the angriest shades.

Jaime knows he has shit for honor, and will die with the name of the Kingslayer forever written on his skin, but that man won’t get to deny all future with his bloody pride keeping his head upright even now.

Pride is a sin, too. Jaime should know – it’s very high on the list of sins common among his family.

“As you keep making me aware,” the Blackfish huffs.

“You should listen to him,” Brienne says, her voice soft, yet strong. Brynden grimaces, but then tilts his head.

Also no longer a request, but a demand, if more soft-spoken than that of the Kingslayer. Even without her armor, the tall woman seems stronger now than he remembers her to standing before him inside Riverrun. Something is changed about her, Brynden can see that. That brokenness he found familiar in her eyes seems absent now, and that even though he broke her, even though he took her down with him by the bridge.

“I will,” the Blackfish mutters. Jaime can’t deny that he is more than pleased to see that stubborn man heel at last, if only at Brienne’s commands. Though those two seem to share a spirit that Jaime can well do without. So long Brienne gets through to that goat, he is not going to mind the methods of how they get there, so long they get there.

“ _As I was trying to say_ … Lord Edmure and I talked about the situation, and we came to the agreement that since it was the Lannister army that officially took Riverrun, the Tully _rebels_ are Lannister business, thus.”  

“Oh, so you mean to tell me that we’ll get to rot in the _Casterly Rock’s_ prison cells rather than those of the Twins?” Brynden huffs. “Now, _that_ makes a great difference of course.”

“Your soldiers won’t be thrown into prison, no,” Jaime says, shaking his head.

The Blackfish frowns. “What? Why?”

“Prisoners are not valuable, not in such number. We’d have to feed them until they die, and there would be no value to them as prisoners,” Jaime tells him, his mimic stoic, because he can’t deny that he wants to see that blackfish thrash around on the hook at least for a short while.

“My men are…,” Brynden means to snap, but Jaime is quick enough to interrupt him, “I know that your men have value, Ser, or else I would have seen them hanging from the gallows after we took the castle. What I am saying is that they have no value _as prisoners_. They only cost you money, money House Lannister can better spend otherwise. The soldiers are not worth a ransom. They can’t all be taken hostage – and what for? That seems rather straightforward, don’t you agree?”

“So what?” Brynden demands to know.

“Lord Edmure and I agreed that Riverrun will remain in the hands of the Freys, since that was what was promised to them by virtue of their support of the Crown in gruesome events during the wedding that meant the demise of most of your kin. _Lord Edmure’s_ soldiers will be added to the Lannister armies in turn,” Jaime goes on to explain.

“Added… to your army,” Brynden repeats, disbelievingly.

“Like that, they are of value for me, which should be well in your interest if your care for them is earnest in any way. Valuable soldiers are those kept alive, Ser,” Jaime tells him.

It’s always about keeping up a charade, playing the game. While Jaime would rather not, he knows by now that if you want to keep the peace, you sometimes have to move behind people’s backs, and other times, you have to spin the truth round and round again.

The older man snorts, throwing his head back slightly. “So you mean to tell me that it’s either choosing the devil or the devil’s advocate?”

“I mean to tell you yet again that this is beyond your control and I am just _informing_ you of the decisions long since made within your absence. _Lord Edmure_ agreed to the treaty. And it’s _his_ permission that matters, not yours. We already signed a contract to clarify all that,” Jaime tells him. “Everything has been set into motion.”

_Things are going forward, even though the old goat tries to walk circles, still._

“And the Freys just accept that?” Brynden huffs, not quite believing that.

The last time Walder Frey did not get his will, the Blackfish had his family slaughtered at a wedding painted red. The new Lord Lannister must be out of his mind if he believes that the old man will keep his feet still now.

_I will not bow, not like this._

“The Freys got what they were entitled to, the castle granted to them by royal decree. The Tully soldiers were never part of that agreement. And of course, they’d cost them money to rot in the black cells likewise, which means it’s in the Frey’s interest likewise,” Jaime retorts.

“What if Walder Frey begs to differ?” Brynden questions.

_Turncoats are always greedy for more. And you are a fool if you believe that traitor won’t betray you, Kingslayer._

“Shall he beg. I already… _instructed_ his sons as to how this will be handled. Ravens have traveled to the Twins to inform Lord Frey of the agreements. You have to see that the Lannister army happens to be in a _quite_ favorable position. We outnumber the Frey armies far enough to ensure they don’t act foolishly and try to overtake our camps while we are here, and therefore get to your men. I already put forward to Lord Frey that it is within his own interest not to have to provide for so many potential prisoners. As for the rest, that is not for Lord Frey to say. That is for _me_ to decide,” Jaime explains.

He is not particularly pleased with the arrangement, but in war, you do not get easy solutions, you don’t get honorable choices that come without the stain of injustice. If you look for clear-cut decisions, you have to stay on your own, and never involve yourself in the greater errors of the world.

Jaime has made tough decisions before, and Riverrun won’t mark the station where he will stop making and owning up to the decisions he made. He made the decision of slaying a king before, compared to that, almost any other decision seems almost achingly small, safe for the one he made in this very tent before, by finally speaking his mind and letting the walls fall that he wasn’t able to bring down until, at last, he did. 

“What of your great alliance?” the Blackfish argues. “I can’t imagine your _alliance partner_ will remain pleased if you just act as you see fit. You know, the last time someone did that, there was a wedding painted in the blood of my kin.”

“The alliance only goes as far as the debt our family owed his, and that was Riverrun. That was and is the castle outside this tent, your ancestral home. And that… is over and dealt with. This, in turn, means that any future agreements will come without him having any sort of claim. He will have to come to us,” Jaime answers.

“It’s good to know that my ancestral home settled that record for you,” Brynden huffs.

“As you should be. Because that means your men are alive,” Jaime retorts, having none of it. “And will remain alive, regardless of your actions meant to undermine any sort of compromise.”

“As slaves to you? Having to fight your wars for you? Die for you?” the Blackfish spats.

“Your soldiers will be treated like my soldiers. They will receive coin for their services, they will get food to eat and mead to drink. The way I understand it, that’s rather far away from a prisoner’s life, no?” Jaime tells him.

Brynden narrows his eyes at him – and Jaime has to try his best not to just roll his eyes at the older man in turn.

_Just when will that stubborn goat get the hint?_

“Those you had in the castle that are too old or were commoners with pitchforks on the onset will be brought back to the farms to occupy the lands. I will only take those into my service who are educated in handling weapons. I assume Lord Frey will see to taxes that they will be obliged to pay to the Twins, but I have also informed him that I will have it controlled that it does not exceed the usual measure. Those soldiers who are healthy and received education in combat will be taken into the Lannister armies. You will be able to imagine that I can’t leave them stationed at Riverrun. That’d be too much of a blow to its new lord,” Jaime goes on.

He is well aware that this is far from ideal, but this world isn’t an ideal one, it couldn’t be further from perfect than it currently is. And yet, he came to realize that sometimes, good can happen even in times that are at such disarray. Jaime simply needs that man to see that with his own two eyes. There is no alternative wherein the Blackfish can keep his ancestral home to himself, can keep his armies, can go as though he was the Lord of Riverrun.

There is just one alternative, and that is the one they have to offer.

He will have to bow, there is no way around it.

“And we wouldn’t want that to happen, the Seven may forbid,” the Blackfish replies with a huff, shaking his head.

 _Is that justice, really?_ the Blackfish thinks to himself with a grimace. _Because it doesn’t feel like it, doesn’t taste like it. In fact, it smells nothing but rotten._

“We don't want that, to finally bring _stability_ to these lands, _yes_. So long Walder Frey feels like he won, he will leave your commoners in peace. So long he feels satisfied, your people will soon fade from the old man’s mind. He is not nearly ambitious enough to strive for more than what he received,” Jaime tells him. “Lord Edmure, as it appears, reconsidered an earlier offer of mine that I was kind enough to grant him a second time, given his _good_ service to House Lannister in handling the Riverrun Siege, which is to allow him to go to the Rock, to reunite with his family there. Under supervision of course, but… it’s better than nothing, no?”

“And Walder Frey agrees to that, too, you think?” Brynden huffs.

Jaime flashes a smile at him that doesn't reach his eyes. “I frankly don’t care. Neither Lord Edmure’s nor the soldiers’ destinies were granted to be at the hands of the Freys by the Crown. The royal decree stated no more and no less than that the Lannisters have to surrender the castle of Riverrun to the Freys. And that is what is done,” the younger man answers, his face unmoving, still.

Jaime went over the orders over and over to. He planned, still plans for a future. He wanted to be sure that Walder Frey could stomp his feet however much the old lech liked, this would be all he would ever get. However, that doesn't change anything about the fact that all Jaime, by royal decree, ever agreed to was the castle and the lands, no more, no less, and that is about as much as Jaime is willing to give to that turncoat.

“And trust me, there are men I am afraid of, but Walder Frey is none of them. If he wants to play pouting child, I will have to take the Twins next – and if he makes me, I will. Though I think he is aware of that circumstance by now. Walder Frey is not as foolish as his sons apparently are. I don't think he’d chance that easy victory, knowing what enemy would then rise against him. Lickspittles and traitors the likes of him have only limited ambition, in my experience. So long they get what you promised them, they will likely not interfere further, so long they are aware that rebelling may have… very sincere consequences,” Jaime tells the older man, who studies him for a long moment before replying, “So where will you take my… _Edmure’s_ men?”

“Wherever I see fit,” Jaime quips, his words cutting as sharply as a knife.

“And you agree to all that, m’lady?” Brynden asks, turning to Brienne now, who remained silent throughout, though, of that he is aware, she has been watching the two men interact all the while. It’s curious how she rarely speaks with her mouth, and yet, seems to say so much more with her eyes and the few words actually travelling past her lips.

The Blackfish doesn’t find it in himself to trust the Kingslayer, no matter what, but her? For reasons still beyond him, Brynden cannot deny her his trust and admiration.

_If she sees justness in this act… then…_

Brienne straightens up slightly, wincing at the pull on her stitches. “It’s the best option. It’s the only one, given the circumstances. This will grant your men safe passage out of Riverrun. It will guarantee you to leave with your honor intact – and your army intact also. It’s far from perfect, I will admit, but… frankly speaking, I think we are long since past the point where we can aim for perfect solutions, Ser. For that… too much happened already that can’t be undone anymore.”

Brynden swallows as his eyes linger on the thick bandages wrapped around her for a moment too long. He didn’t mean for her to land herself in such a mess. He thought she wouldn’t go that far, but it seems that he made one vital mistake in underestimating the daughter of the Evenstar of Evenfall Hall.

“I believe it is the best for all of us, at present,” Brienne continues. “It’s the one path granting a future for you, your kin, and the people you once commanded, the people you care about and want to know protected.”

Brienne trusts Jaime, she did so long before she was able to admit it. It already began at the time back in Harrenhal when she told him that you need trust to have a truce, the moment he said that he trusted her, and meant it, that was when she found herself believing in that man and the value of his words. If he says he will do these things, Jaime will, Brienne has no doubt about that. It’s just that the Blackfish has to find it in his heart to see things the way she does, that he sees in Jaime what she sees in him, has seen all along. The fish scales finally have to be lifted from his eyes to make him see that those serpents he glances upon lingering around Riverrun are no more. Or at the least, are not as threatening as he made them out to be.

Some monsters are tame.

And some monsters aren’t even monsters, but only wear their skins.

“Well, as _Lord Lannister_ pointed out… it’s a decision long since made without me, so it can’t be changed even if I were against it, no?” the Blackfish huffs. “Meaning no offense, m’lady.”

“You don't learn very fast, but after a while, you seem to do after all,” Jaime says almost in a sing-song. “Which is such a relief.”

And people keep telling him that _he_ is a slow learner.

“What I mean to say – and what _he_ means to say…,” Brienne goes on, glancing at Jaime who just chuckles at her judging tone. “I know that you want to see your men safe. That is what drove you all along. Honor and their safety, that was your driving force, I know it. That Riverrun is now in the hands of the Freys is something we can no longer change without posing more danger to the people under your… _our_ protection. But wouldn’t you agree that it’s better to have them walk away like _this_ instead of having them in Walder Frey’s prison cells? I know you want another life for them, but do you sincerely wish for them to spend the rest of their lives like this? Where is the honor in that, Ser?”

Brynden turns his head to the side.

Where is the honor in that?

 _Where is the honor in any of this_? he wants to ask, but does not.

“It’s as you said, though, you don’t have a choice, I’d just rather have you…,” Jaime means to say, but the Blackfish cuts him off, “Surrender?”

Jaime rolls his shoulders. “I would have said _yield_ , but I suppose it comes down to the same thing.”

The Blackfish scoffs, turning his attention away from the Lord of Casterly Rock once more.

“But answer me this, then, Lady Brienne. What are the options you mean to offer _me_?” Brynden asks, turning back to Brienne. “What will it be?”

Though the Blackfish reckons this choice will be between devil and the other, not even its advocate.

_Not that this would be completely unjust, though, considering what she went through thanks to what happened by the drawbridge._

“Your choice is to either join your armies, which will then be part of the Lannister forces, or you will be turned over to Casterly Rock,” Brienne replies simply.

“With Edmure,” Brynden says, not liking the way the words taste on his tongue.

_Bitter, all tastes bitter._

“I still think that’s too much of a reward, but that’s how the lady has decided,” Jaime grumbles, making his discontent no secret. If it were according to what he’d want, Jaime would have far less love and comfort to spare for the man who almost took Brienne away from him forever, and almost managed. So, perchance it’s for the better to have the lady decide on the matter after all.

“And if I were to ask you to just execute me…,” the Blackfish tries to say, but Brienne interrupts him before he can even finish the sentence. “I will not, and neither will Lord Jaime.”

She was willing to go to death for this man, and that arrow changed nothing much about the fact that Brienne values the Blackfish, for the man he was, the man he was to Lady Catelyn, and far more importantly, the man he can be, still.

Because people can change, they can move forward, but for that they have to start moving, for that they have to pursue the path, no matter how rocky and strenuous it may be.

She has seen that with a man whom she believed to be without honor – until he proved her wrong. And if there is a way for her to come to that realization, Brienne wants to believe that there is a way for Brynden as well, considering that they still share a common spirit.

“I told you, you are not important enough to me to drench my hand in your blood and make a martyr of you,” Jaime adds, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Because that would be the result, no doubt. You create an aura of glory about a man once he is executed by the enemy because he can no longer be made responsible for whatever crimes he may have committed, and people tend to speak little ill about a man they may have admired once.

What’s much harder is to gain glory while still alive.

“Ser, I want you to live. If that was not my deeply felt wish, I would not say so,” Brienne goes on, leaving no doubt in her voice, her words, which has Brynden shake his head ever so lightly.

That is what already surprised him back when they both stood on the same side of the walls of Riverrun, this clarity with which that mannish woman can deliver a message if she must, the strength she finds in herself, even if beaten down to the ground by circumstance.

 _Lord Selwyn surely raised one fine future heir_ , the Blackfish thinks to himself. _Though the lady seems to be blind to that diplomatic talent of hers, still._

“Why wouldn’t you want me dead? After all I have done?” Brynden argues, pointing at her injured side. “How wouldn’t you want revenge for _that_?”

_How wouldn’t you want to pay me back?_

Because it won’t go into his head, no matter how much the Blackfish tries to imagine it, tries to grasp it. Brynden knows the woman has a good heart, even in all his anger he knew it all along, but to think that even now Brienne can look at him with a soft glance, can offer a gentle voice, can find it in herself to want him alive rather than dead… it’s a thing of impossibility, because that is a wheel that doesn’t break.

_It’s a thing that just shouldn’t be, not after all that’s happened, after all that's done._

Revenge runs along the lines of history since the Andals and the First Men roamed these lands. Revenge, the wish to pay back, the give back the pain one has received at the hands of others, took its first breath along with the first babe being born into this world.

And that old call did not die out over the years, in fact, the echoes now ever the stronger in any man’s and any woman’s chest. Brynden saw it, felt it, during the Red Wedding, when revenge over hurt pride, over that one fatal mistake made out of love, brought about a vengeance exceeding any measure. Revenge doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t stop. It’s one of those wheels that keeps turning no matter who tries his or her luck trying to break out of the cycle, out of the endless repetition of the same vicious turn of hurting, being hurt, and hurting another yet again.

_It never stops, it just doesn’t._

The wheel just keeps turning round and round again, for years, centuries, over generations, even when Houses are long since extinct, faded from the family trees, when ancestral homes long since lie in ruins and no one can tell anymore who once inhabited this place, called it his or her own.

Yet, here sits the woman whose turn it would be now to hurt, to pay back, to take revenge, to turn the wheel once more, and she… doesn’t want to do it? Doesn't feel the need for it? When every other would draw the sword, or pull back the sinew of the bow in hand?

How is that possible?

How is that real? When thousands of years had revenge carry on, no matter the bad outcomes?

How does Brienne not mean to turn the wheel when that seems to be the one thing uniting humans in all of their badness?

“Because there is purpose in you, because there is still might in you. You have not given up yet,” Brienne explains. “That is why.”

While Brienne wouldn’t ever say it to Jaime’s face, she sees something in the Blackfish that she saw in him back when Locke and his men cut off his hand – the act of defiance, the will to still shout out, despite the danger, despite perhaps even the fear, in favor of a wish to protect, to keep going, even if the call seems distant, dimmed, almost out of reach, but only just almost.

Brienne would have left Riverrun far sooner, and under different circumstances most certainly, if she hadn’t found herself being torn, torn by the black eels making her want to run from a man consumed by vengeance, and the shimmer of hope gleaming up behind fish scales covering his eyes, making him blind to possibility, to prospect, to future, a way out, a path leading elsewhere, ahead.

“You say so to a man who sits here, conversing with the Kingslayer and the woman he almost killed by accident, having to just take for granted that his men will be taken from him, that everything he meant to die for… is gone. I don't really see where I have not given up yet, or was forced to _yield_ , Lady Brienne,” Brynden argues. “I’m sorry. What you seem to see – I don’t. I can’t.”

“It’s only gone so long you wish to die for it. I ask you… no, I _demand_ of you something that I once demanded of someone else,” Brienne says, her eyes flitting over to Jaime for a brief moment before returning to the Blackfish. “I demand of you to _live_. To live and carry on, no matter how hard it may seem at times such as these.”

Brynden looks at her, stunned

Brienne lets out a light cough, followed by another wince, before she carries on, “Dying is easy, Ser, dying for a cause is… also quite easy, I came to realize. It’s one step to the side, one arrow taken, but then it’s over, it’s just a moment, a few minutes at the most. _Living_ for a purpose, for a goal, however… _that_ is the hard part, the long way, with rocks and tripping stones along the path. No matter what happened, Ser, I believe that there is still might in you to do more good in this world than bad. The thing is that you will have to choose a new purpose for yourself. You to have to choose, you have to choose now.”

“As a hostage? What purpose is there in me? Hasn’t he said that a prisoner is of no value?” Brynden argues, shaking his head, bitterness heavy in his voice, heavy on his mind.

_And isn’t the Kingslayer right in just that assessment?_

Brienne’s eyes remain on him the whole time, as though they could wash him off the blood somehow, anyhow, as she goes on to say, “Which is why I hope you will join your men instead. I know you care for them, even when hatred clouded your mind – and made you put them at risk, even when it almost swallowed you whole… I saw you talking to your men, I saw you interact with them. You know their names, you know their families, you know who they are. They are not merely pawns to you. That’s rare enough in a general these days. That’s what makes a good leader.”

That is the man she vowed to at Riverrun, not the one consumed by anger and grief, but the man who clapped his soldiers on the shoulder, asked them how they are, how the farm was doing outside these walls before they called to arms, had a tender word, even a laughter every now and then, to spare.

And it is that man Brienne wants to put faith into, still. Because that is also the man currently riding under the crimson banner with the embroidered lion.

_If only he saw that._

“If you become a hostage… your purpose will be only limited to yourself, but if you choose the other… you will have a purpose reaching beyond yourself, something bigger, something more important – something more important than this castle, even, far more important,” Brienne continues.

Brynden looks at her.

That castle is all he had – and now it's gone.

_Now even my tomb and grave are gone, trampled on by the Twins. What is there left for me?_

“I think…,” she says, biting her lower lip. “I think I was wrong to believe that this would be my end… and so I want to believe that it’s not the end for you either, for us both to have a purpose in this world. That we both… _matter_ , to achieve that purpose. There is still a future to be built, and not just a castle to defend for a few more days, until a new enemy arises and takes it by force. And you can either help craft it… or just look at it from a distance while the world carries on without you. I will not command you to choose either one, but I advise you to choose future over past.”

Because Brienne learned that this is the only choice that matters – that you do not linger in the past when there is a future ahead of you, however far away, however unlikely it may seem to get to it. Because sometimes, even the impossible happens, comes to life in a single touch, a few words spoken.

Even during times such as these, there is a chance of future, and they have to use it.

Now or never.

And she wants to choose the now.

“Why are you still kind to me? Why do you bother?” the Blackfish has to ask again, his voice shaking. He just cannot understand, comprehend, grasp, hold on to it, the words, the thoughts.

_She shouldn’t look at me like this. She shouldn’t have these kind words for me. Where is the revenge? The hatred? How am I to keep hating if you don’t turn the wheel another time?_

“I ask myself that question oftentimes…,” Jaime whistles. Brienne narrows her eyes at him, but then focuses back on the Blackfish. “I don’t know if I am kind to you. I know in fact that this feels like punishment to you. I know that you feel the urge to die for this one cause, for your ancestral home, but… the reason why I want you to live is that… that you and I, we are alike in many ways.”

“I would strongly disagree with _that_ assessment…,” Jaime mutters.

“Jaime,” Brienne snaps, but then turns her attention back to the Blackfish. “We have a similar sense of honor. Are equally as stubborn. You remind me of my father in many ways… not in all, but quite a few. I can’t ever claim to know what your loss did to you, what it took from you, but I know what loss is. How it tears you apart. How it makes you blind to any prospect of a future.”

To the point that she would have died, believing that there was no way for her, until it came to her with the squeeze of a hand and a brush of lips.

And suddenly, future was there, where there used to be just a past full of losses and little to no gains.

Brynden just looks at her, chewing on his lower lip.

“I think _this_ is future, what is offered here, standing on shaky pillars, but standing nonetheless. That is… _future_ , not just a distant dream of things out of reach. Palpable future, within one’s grasp because it recognizes the circumstances that we sadly have to deal with. Why would I mean to offer you castles built in the air to repay you for the lass of the one built of stone just out the tent? I won’t lie to you. But what Jaime offers… is no castle in the air. He will stand by his word, I know it,” she tells the older man, hoping, praying, that he will see it, because that is the condition Jaime gave, he has to see it for himself.

He has to bow.

Brienne looks back over at Jaime, who gives her an easy smile.

The “I trust you” is left unspoken, resonating between them soundlessly, but perhaps even stronger than before.

Brienne trusts him – and she wants to believe in the future he… _they_ can still build, because she now also got a taste, a taste of the apparently real world of his lips on hers, of a man who used to be the dishonorable Kingslayer, and now stands there as a Lord whom his soldiers follow, even on the quest they are yet to undertake.

“I want you to go on living, I want you to go on fighting because I want you to see the future I see, because I want… I want this wound,” she says, touching her side with a wince, “to be worthwhile. I didn't leave when I could have because I believed in you. While I will admit that my faith in you is not what it once was…”

“I can’t blame you for it,” the Blackfish chuckles sadly.

To think that she can even talk about ever having had faith in the man who almost got her killed – but then again, rumor has it that the Kingslayer also tried his luck, and as it appears, they stand on the same side after all, and likely always did, even when she was still inside Riverrun.

“Neither should you,” Jaime grumbles.

“But I still have a sort of faith in you, in what you can still do. Because I see that… I can’t just accept you to kill yourself or to be killed. My devotion to die alongside you was earnest the same way it was earnest to have you have parley with Lord Jaime to reach an agreement. I _meant_ these things, and I _mean_ them even now. I see that you can help us build a future, but for that… you have to want it, too. I will not take your life. That’d bring me to dishonor the same way it’d shame you, or Lord Jaime. Enough blood was spilled over that quarrel already. It does no one any good. That battle, over Riverrun, you may have lost, but you can still try at another battle, another war. And I hope you will take that chance because that is… the only one granting a future,” Brienne tells him, hoping that at last, the words will reach him, will break through to him, past the black eels and his ancestral home looming in the distance. “The only one granting life.”

Because this chapter has to be closed.

Or else there is no true chance of opening a new one without the bad feeling that there are words left unwritten on the previous pages.

“So, to cut things short, Ser,” Jaime intervenes, growing impatient. “The choice for you to make is to either join your nephew, to stay at the Rock – or to join the Lannister forces, including your former men, to the missions of my choosing. Unless you throw yourself off a cliff, drop dead out of sheer spite, or manage to craft a weapon out of the Gods know what, death is no option for you as an easy way out. Those are your two options. That is the one choice you will be granted. This choice will inevitably determine your future. But you should remember that your future lies at both her mercy and mine, for that is how she has decided.”

Because she trusts his mercy, too.

“What will you do with the armies? What will you have them do?” Brynden asks.

“You will only know once you choose, Ser. I am not as benevolent as Brienne is. I am still pissed enough to play devil’s advocate, if you make me,” Jaime tells him. “So don’t test me.”

He needs that old bastard to yield, not just to bow his head, but yield.

_Yield. Bow. Just yield, old man. Then I will show you the way._

“Will you force me to bend my knee to you?” the Blackfish asks.

“I don’t insist on it,” Jaime huffs, laughing softly. “If you feel an apparent need, I can’t hinder you, obviously, _but_ I will require a signed contract.”

“ _Contract_ , really?” Brynden huffs. To him, it’s still rather odd to hear that from a soldier, but perhaps that is what happens when a man of the Kingsguard starts to mingle with politics.

“I don’t think oral agreements to be as binding as written ones,” the younger man replies. “This is as much in your interest as it is in ours… granted that you stop being a stubborn mule and take the deal.”

“Jaime,” Brienne interrupts.

He turns to her. “What? _You_ said you want to be gentle about him, I have no such intention, that’s no secret.”

“Still,” she insists.

“Woman, what did we agree upon?” he retorts. “Do I have to remind you?”

“Not that you talk to him in such a tone. You think that this will convince him?”

“You think coddling will? You never coddled me about such matters!”

“Oh by the Seven…”

The Blackfish watches the two for a long moment, silently taking in. They seem to completely forget that he is even there, the enemy, the man who almost had her killed. In fact, it seems that they truly only see each other.

So _that_ is supposed to be the future? His future? At the mercy of a beast with a chopped-off paw who, right at this moment, appears far less than the great monster he tried to see in him while he was still inside his ancestral home?

This is the Kingslayer, a man whose shadow seems to reach further than most, whose echo resonates deeper, darker, into the furthest corners of the Seven Kingdoms.

This is the man Brynden wanted to kill, slay, take out with the shot of an arrow.

This is the man he learned to hate with the same burning fire that he finds boiling within him when he thinks of Walder Frey or the rest of the Lannisters, sipping wine from golden cups, hidden away in the Red Keep, or fled across the Narrow Sea after perhaps the one noble deed of killing the patriarch of this bloody House.

And yet, this is the man now jesting with Lady Brienne as though that whole situation was not dire, as though the hatred stopped, as though the wheel stopped turning right there, forgetting about him in their argument completely.

_The Kingslayer doesn't want to turn the wheel? Or can at least ignore it, put it aside?_

Is that the new world, then, or the echo of it, at least?

Is that the future Lady Brienne envisions, sees before her big blue eyes like a distant yet close star?

“… We talked about this before, you recall, yes?” Jaime mutters.

“Do we have to have that argument right now in front of him?” Brienne argues, gesturing at the Blackfish, busy observing the two interact as though all trouble from the drawbridge remained in the mist hanging over the waters surrounding the castle.

“You started!” he insists.

“I did _not_ , you…”

“I…,” Brynden speaks up.

The two snap their attention back around to him, blinking, almost looking just the same for a moment there.

Jaime looks at him, waiting. “Yes?”

It really feels as though they are right back on the journey to King’s Landing, for Jaime at least, just that it’s no longer King’s Landing, but another place, another time.

And it is yet to be decided who will be travelling in their company – and to what time they are meant to travel.

“… I will choose to stay with my men… well, _your_ men, then,” the Blackfish says, much to both their shock, even though that was precisely what they wanted to hear him say.

Jaime bore little hope that the old man could be convinced of the deal, could be convinced to yield. He knows the likes of him. Brienne is too much like him anyway, and that woman doesn’t yield to anyone or anything so long she deems it unworthy. He warned Brienne that he may disagree, but both figured that this was the only way.

_We need to find new ways, new paths. The old ones are far too much stomped upon, too set, and only led to disaster after disaster._

“Now, that is _music_ to my ears. In which case…,” Jaime says taking out a parchment attached to a wooden board to hand over to Brynden. “You want to make your mark after having read it through thoroughly, obviously. I wouldn’t want you to sign a contract you did not study carefully. After all, this is an important choice.”

He is not taking any chances, or else the old goat will end up changing his mind again.

“And you truly mean it that the Tully soldiers will be treated well?” the Blackfish asks, his voice growing smaller as he skims through the lines.

At some point he can’t believe himself to have spoken these words, or rather, to have meant them.

Because he did.

That the Blackfish means to put faith in the honor of the man without honor, that, for the briefest of moments, he saw something strangely familiar spark up between the two before him that made him have hope once, a feeling he thought he had lost entirely during that bloody wedding.

It was the way his nephew looked upon his little bride, when she was with child, before their destiny was sealed with their own blood, and that of the future neglected, stabbed before it could ever catch its first breath. The smile, the easiness, no matter the situation, no matter the war raging, that there was hope.

Brynden may not trust the Kingslayer, but he trusts Brienne. He cannot find it in himself not to, not after she didn’t give up on him just yet, even now, after the pain he caused, the scars he left, not all of which will leave marks on her skin, but her mind, her heart.

“Why else would they already get drunk with my men?” Jaime snorts.

It surprised him as well, but a glance around the camps assured Jaime of that very queer circumstance, as men wearing lions on their shield and armor shared mead with those whose coat of arms is the trout. However, the way he figures, what may have been working in their favor was that it never came to a fight. The soldiers didn’t just meet on the battlefield, ready to kill one another. They met each other after the battle was settled, without bloodshed.

That makes companionship less of an impossible task. And while the Tullymen remain faithful to the Blackfish and hate it to have been forced to hand Riverrun over to the Freys, but it is not their ancestral home that lies ahead of them, it’s that of their Lord, and so long they get something in exchange, the common folk seems to be more willing to overcome the boundaries the royals have a hard time trespassing.

“They are?” Brynden stares.

“What did Bronn say? Where there is enough mead, peace is easiest achieved,” Jaime chuckles softly.

Because that is the thing with wars, it seems. Soldiers themselves are rarely at quarrel with the other soldiers, if not for the fights they are made to struggle in the names of Kings and Queens, Lords and Ladies. If two armies meet without losses on either side, they are just a bunch of strangers, with their lords having the quarrels rather than themselves.

Whether they are stags, dragons, wolves, lions, krakens, roses, snakes, birds, or trouts, it makes no difference to the common soldier in the end. It’s just the emblem on his shield, on his armor, if he has one, the banner under which he rides or strides. It may be that he follows this one lord or this one king because he believes in him, but rarely does the House itself play into it among the lower ranks. They would rather be at home with their wives and children, would rather be away from all this war, hatred, death.

But the moment there is no longer fight among the Houses, so long there is no one blowing the fanfares to lead them to march into battle, there is no quarrel, there is no war, just peasants and farmers with different animals drawn on their shields, calling different lords their leaders, different knights the men they mean to follow to death because he rides with them to the Seven Hells.

War only exists so long the fanfares ring, but once they do no longer, it may well be that guest right once neglected is suddenly upheld again as soldiers with different banners share bread and mead, stories and songs.

“Here, have it,” Brynden says, handing the board back over to him, his mark now beneath the contract.

A promise made palpable.

Real.

Jaime grins slightly as he puts the thing away again.

_There is wonder after all._

“I may congratulate you to the first reasonable choice you made since I came to Riverrun,” he chuckles. Brynden rolls his eyes at him, and Brienne keeps shooting daggers at him with her big blue eyes, though Jaime doesn’t let that wear him down at this point.

The man may have made a smart move, but that doesn’t make him rise in his ranking, and likely won’t ever.

“So, since I am now… at _Lord Lannister’s_ mercy, wouldn’t it be time to inform me of my mission? Will it be to protect the Rock? A post at the City Watch, perhaps? Or the King’s new clown?” the Blackfish huffs, though it’s evident that he is just trying to cover up something very human, something that men of honor and old codices do well to hide behind their wide-reaching reputations, strong stature, and steady voice – fear, fear of a future unknown.

Jaime sighs. “You really have to learn a lesson about submission, old man.”

“I am too old for that,” the Blackfish argues, making the younger man smirk in all earnest this time. That is more like the man he learned about in the stories – and that is the man Jaime can much better deal with than this stubborn goat not moving by only just an inch.

“I reckoned as much,” Jaime chuckles. “ _In any case_. A part of your men will be sent to the Rock, along with Lord Edmure, not as many as my own, after all, I wouldn’t want discordance to spread. I am not so foolish to send too many men of another family to be around my castle.”

It still tastes strange, this phrase “my castle.” His castle. Jaime, ever since he joined the Kingsgaurd, gave up on ever thinking about inheriting the Rock. That was the birthright he forwent in favor of being around Cersei. And for a time, he saw his father’s insistence more as a nuisance, as a punishment, than anything else. As means to part him from the life he wanted to live, but as things stand now… suddenly, the Rock offers all those futures unknown.

While it comes with responsibility, with risk, Jaime is aware of that, it also comes with hope, with a power at his command, to use to his purposes, no longer dictated by others.

“Obviously.”

“A small part will remain with some of my men, here at Riverrun, but rather the surrounding lands. Too few to take a castle, but enough to talk to the commoners and make sure that they are not interrupted in their daily business, along with my own men,” Jaime goes on.

It took quite some effort to hammer that into Edmure’s head, but eventually, he yielded, and far easier than his uncle, obviously.

“Nothing without supervision,” the Blackfish snorts.

“Since you all will have to prove yourselves as soldiers, still, yes, supervision has a high priority to me,” Jaime says sharply.

“And what of me, then?” Brynden asks. “That is the one answer you still owe me for that signature I gave you.”

_That contract with the devil’s advocate, right?_

“ _You_ will help me once we come to Winterfell,” Jaime says with resolution. Brynden’s eyes widen.

He expected to hear “the Rock,” if not exile some other place, perhaps across the Narrow Sea.

“ _Winterfell_? What would you want there?” the Blackfish asks, sitting up straight in his seat.

“Negotiations. With the Lady of Winterfell.”

“What?”

Jaime hands him another parchment, the one that came from the North. Brynden snaps it from him. Jaime makes a dismissive gesture, glancing back at Brienne, though her eyes only say “leave him alone.”

That woman is too good to be true.

_And yet, on my side now, for all the good it does her in turn._

“This is… not possible,” Brynden stammers, looking down on the parchment with disbelief wreaking his body as he keeps sucking in gulps of air.

_All this time I thought…_

“Lady Sansa’s death was staged,” Brienne says, as though she still has to repeat it to make it real, palpable truth. “She escaped the Boltons and made it to the Wall without anyone’s knowledge. And she and her brother, former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, managed to take Winterfell only recently, as it appears.”

When she first read it, she could not believe it.

When she read it again, it seemed no less surreal, as though the letters were just about to jump off the page, but they didn’t, they stayed.

It only became realer to her once Jaime said it, again and again, until the words spread inside her mind, strike roots, take a hold, a place.

When she read that message another time, once the words seeped beneath her skin, Brienne wanted to weep in joy, because she didn’t dare to believe that after such horrid events, there would be anything good to look forward to, beside the hushed promise of a love she thought she would never have, until she did.

The messenger was sent to Riverrun to bring message to the Blackfish in all secret. By the time he was sent out, the siege was still in full swing, and the Starks did not see a reason why they could rely on the Blackfish making it in time to join them in the battle for Winterfell, so the messenger informed them.

Brienne repeated it to herself again and again in a whisper, Jaime’s hand holding hers as she could not keep herself from trembling, “Sansa is alive. Sansa is alive. Sansa is alive.”

While Brienne still cannot say that she feels free of her guilt, for it still sticks onto her, the biggest stains were washed away with the ink the message was written with.

She will have to deal with the guilt of not having made the choice for Sansa when she should have, to bring her to Castle Black, to rally troops for their fight for their ancestral home, but that is quite another burden to shoulder than that of having come too late, of having neglected her vows completely, of never having a chance again to repent for that fatal mistake.

“I thought Lady Sansa jumped off the walls of Winterfell, and it seems she actually did, but she survived the fall. The Boltons likely used another body to pass for hers, to leave Ramsay as the widower and therefore holding the castle by virtue of having wed her before her fake demise,” Brienne goes on to say.

While they don’t know all the details yet, that seems to be the most reasonable explanation at this point, though Brienne can’t find it in herself to truly care at this point. Suddenly, leaving those things to the past seems so much easier, because there is now a new destination, apparently the old one all over, but this time with a new purpose, with a new kind of hope.

_To the North._

“She’s alive… I thought she was dead, I thought she was…,” Brynden says, rubbing his thumb over the parchment absently.

He doesn't know the girl well, but if she takes up after Cat only just a bit, and he takes that to be the case, judging by the way she phrased that letter, there is a lot of Tully in that child. And more than anything, he’d want to meet her, to catch a glimpse at the family that remained.

And suddenly, the castle right outside seems far more distant, while the snowy castle shrouded in mist without a shape, for he has never seen it himself, seems so very close, as though he could reach it the same way he can grasp that parchment speaking of a hope he thought was dead, buried in ice, along with siblings, mothers, fathers, nephews, nieces, futures never granted to come to full bloom.

 _Lady Brienne seems to have the rights of it after all_ , he thinks to himself with a sad smile. _There is something beyond, whatever it may be, but it’s there, up in the North, just not here._

However, that is when another thought strikes inside his mind, and it instantly makes dark clouds rise above that distant castle. “… But… you are a Lannister. Why would you want to negotiate with the Starks? Will you mean her harm?”

Jaime rolls his eyes at him. “You really think Brienne would agree to that if I had any so such intention?”

_And here is to the old goat again. You may make that man yield, but you can’t make him keep bowing his head, as it appears._

“Even if _you_ don’t bear it, your _family_ …,” Brynden says, but Jaime cuts him off, “Well, apparently, this message was supposed to be delivered specifically to _you_. That means my family won’t know before I give them the information, for I can’t imagine that Lady Sansa will send such a letter to King’s Landing, only to have my sister, who still believes her Joffrey’s murderer, informed about the circumstance of her survival and apparent rise back into power until her position is more secured.”

“You mean you want to keep it a secret?” the Blackfish asks.

Why would he want to move behind his family’s back?

Brynden heard the rumors that are likely more than rumors.

Why would he betray _that_ woman of all people?

And that for the likes of _his_ clan?

“You think I didn’t do such a thing all the while, sending Brienne out to find her – to just that result?” Jaime snaps, honestly fed up with this now. “Brienne is not the only one who made a promise to your niece, and against the odds of being the Kingslayer and a Lannister, a _man without honor_ , I did indeed try to stay true to that vow, believe it or not… Though then again, I don't really care for what you think of me, Ser. You can still believe me your personal demon if it pleases you. In the meantime, I will focus on the larger issue at hand here. You are not the person I owe anything to. I have far more urgent business than trying to convince you of me.”

If doing the right thing means to have some people scared of the Kingslayer, of the shadow haunting him, then Jaime is ready to accept that. He is no longer out chasing the appreciation of lords and ladies, or old knights who seemingly only want to see the bad in him.

All that matters is what he sees in himself, what he wants for himself – and what Brienne sees in him, and what she sees in him is a light residing in that shadow, he knows. And even if that light stays hidden till the day he dies, he will work towards bringing flame to it again, after he already believed it dead for the longest of times, until Brienne took it into her big hands to bring it back to life.

“Which would be?” Brynden asks.

“Well, read again, you may be able to catch that other bit of information beside Lady Sansa’s being alive and being back at Winterfell that should have us all concerned,” Jaime tells him, chewing on his lower lip.

Because, while he dared to think of futures and fortune, there came a much more threatening message alongside the notice of reassurance that a young girl apparently did not fall to her death in her own ancestral home.

Brynden goes back over the information in the text. “The… Others.”

“I don’t know what this is about exactly, but granted that what they say is true, and bearing in mind that the Citadel proclaimed that Winter has come, then this is bigger than Houses, bigger than the Throne, even. Because that may well mean that we are up against the living dead returned,” Jaime says, swallowing thickly. “And if that is… it’s _more_ than worth and within the Crown’s interest to investigate the case. For if it is true, we have to defend the Kingdom, don’t you agree? Thus, negotiations are likely the best means at this point to make certain of the exact circumstances this parchment outlines. It’s an exchange of information, no more, no less. And such is open to a Lord without requiring royal decree for it.”

At least that is how Jaime will be selling it – if that works out in the end, he doesn’t know, but he is willing to take that risk. That letter wouldn’t have been sent all the way to Riverrun in just that fashion, with all the secrecy, under all this danger, if not for a purpose.

And even if it’s more of a ruse, Jaime knows his army to exceed whatever it is that they have gathered in the North, so if they have the hope of setting up a trap for the lion, they should be aware that a lion who already lost a paw is ever the more careful not to lose the other as well.

“And why do you want me to come with you, then?” the Blackfish asks.

“I don’t know what Sansa or her little bastard brother, now proclaimed King in the North, will have to say about quite a few Lannister soldiers knocking on the doors of Winterfell. There is no sure way to tell what they will think of Brienne either, sadly. But you? Sansa bothered to reach out to you with that letter. You are her kin. So you are a good way to enter negotiations without much trouble,” Jaime tells him.

That was the one purpose he can see in the Blackfish: He can open the gates he held closed here at Riverrun.

At first, he didn’t want to believe, but the more Brienne kept talking to him, the more Jaime had to realize that there was sense to her mercy, to her undying faith for a man he’d rather see dead for the act of almost taking her away from him.

“So you mean you have some hostage to take to Winterfell to buy yourself into the castle?” Brynden frowns. “I don't know if that will be successful, I may tell you.”

“No, because I will require of you to fulfil that service for me as my new soldier. You will play _messenger_ for me. Seems easy enough, right?” Jaime argues.

 _If_ it is easy, he doesn’t know. That is the thing once you start to work towards a future, once you step out of the same murky waters you swam through for years and years, learning every bump, every wave by heart: You have to take risks, have to wade through unknown waters, even though covered by snow and ice, you have to dive, you have to take up with the cold winds blowing, but it is the only way Jaime sees.

At least that the way Brienne and he want to walk from now on, no longer back, but forward, even if it is only unknown futures awaiting them up in the North, with the threat now there that all of the living will have to fight against the dead.

However, with Winter knocking on the front doors, there is ever the more necessity for a future, and futures are better built in company rather than rivalry.

“Messenger,” the Blackfish repeats, still not quite believing what he hears with his own two ears.

Alliances? A lion travelling to the North to meet the wolf? Rebelling against the Crown if he must? Who is this man before him now?

“Ser, I thought I made myself clear enough – I don’t care for what you think of the choices I make and if you see them fit. You just became valuable to me in the investigation up North, and if you want to prove to Brienne and me that you are not the useless, stubborn man I still take you to be, you should choose wisely for once and keep your head low and be thankful for a chance offered to you.”

“And what chance is that?” the Blackfish asks.

“Of seeing your kin, of being around your family. That is a bliss few get, even less those who are considered rebels to the Crown. You lost large parts of your family, as did many of us, but you still have some alive, and they are in the North. So you should be thanking me that this is the service I have chosen for you. I could just as well have you sent to the Rock to be annoyed at Edmure… being Edmure,” Jaime huffs, waving his hand dismissively. “I think that could be considered torture, actually…”

“So… that’s it?” the Blackfish asks, still not quite believing it.

“That's it, for now anyway. We will stay here a while longer to see about all arrangements necessary, with the Freys, for instance. I want to be sure that Walder Frey keeps his head low once we ride past the Twins towards Winterfell.”

“But answer this one question, then,” Brynden says.

“And what would that be now, too?” Jaime huffs.

“Why didn’t you say that from the very beginning?” the older man huffs. “That could have saved us quite some trouble.”

“Because you needed to learn a lesson,” Jaime snorts. “Had I just gone ahead to tell you about Lady Sansa, then you would have agreed for her sake, but I require more than your personal interest in this. I needed to be certain that you would agree to our conditions – on your own.”

“You wanted me to bow,” Brynden chuckles softly. And for some strange reason, his knees don’t ache from that movement, it seems.

“I needed to yield, it’s just that simple. I have no reason to trust you, Ser, so I needed something else of you,” Jaime explains. “And that is that you take the chance to our conditions, not yours.”

“Well, I suppose that may be the fortune I deserve, being fooled by a fool.”

“Perhaps that is something to connect us after all,” Jaime snorts.

“Oh, that would be quite a shock,” Brynden says, finding himself smile, but then he gathers himself again. “I suppose I owe you a debt.”

“You do. And you will repay, with interest,” Jaime says.

And that is also his reward.

“And you will be going North as well? Isn’t the capitol something that would require your attention as well?”

“I suppose the fight against the living dead, if what the message says is true, will require all of our attention,” Jaime says, letting his gaze wander over to Brienne for a moment there. They talked about it for quite some time, about the implications of those news, towards a future still dangling on the finest of threads, which are, as it seems, actually made out of ice.

And truth be told, it is frightening to think that the Others may have returned indeed. At some point, Jaime actually would rather have it turn out a ruse, because the living dead walking amongst them? Compared to that, most troubles he bothered with back in King’s Landing seem achingly small.

However, there is just the direction forward now, no matter the dangers awaiting them in the North, because if the message is to be believed, the future of all of them will be decided on ice and snow.

“Seems like it,” the Blackfish agrees, swallowing thickly.

“Well, then I reckon that all is set and done for now,” Jaime sighs, hugging his chest.

“Just like that,” the older man mutters, still not quite believing it that he surrendered and that it doesn’t fill him with the dread he felt all the while inside the walls of Riverrun.

“Just like that,” Jaime repeats. “But I think now is the time that you should retreat to your tent. Lady Brienne still has to recover from her injury.”

“Would you quit speaking on my behalf?” Brienne quips.

“I was trying to be nice.”

“And you fail quite miserably, still.”

“I will leave you to your own affairs, then,” the Blackfish says, getting up, rolling his aching shoulders, finding them a little lighter. He looks at Brienne for a long moment. “I will repay the debt I owe you, I promise you that much. And I… thank you, for not giving up on an old man the likes of me.”

Brienne offers the smallest of smiles. “And I thank you for… trusting me… us.”

“It’s the only chance I have, as you said. But for once I agree with the Kingslayer, you should gather your strength. The way up North is strenuous.”

“I told you.”

“Oh, shut your mouth,” she retorts.

Brynden shakes his head with a smirk as he leaves the tent, not surprised to find the sellsword and the soldiers who escorted him here waiting for him.

“So? Do I get to execute you?” Bronn asks, grinning.

“I am afraid no,” Brynden answers.

“Pity, you still annoy me,” Bronn sighs, looping his thumbs through his belt. “But oh well, then I suppose we are to bring you back to your tent.”

“It appears so.”

“Well, then… go ahead,” the sellsword says, gesturing at the older man to start moving.

Brynden begins to walk, then, his eyes all the while focused on Riverrun, his ancestral home, the place he grew up at, the place where he watched young Edmure, Lysa, and Catelyn bake mud cakes, fight with twig swords, and catch fish with self-made rods, the place where his stubborn brother found his end, drifting away on a boat he set fire to with an arrow that normally never misses its target until it hit the woman with blue eyes at whose mercy he now is, the place his niece returned to only once, short before they headed to a wedding painted in red. He can also see the two towers of House Frey embroidered on the banners hanging from the castle’s walls. He can see Frey soldiers going in and out.

That is the place the Blackfish wanted to find his end at, with sword in hand, as a last act of defiance. That is the place he was willing to sacrifice to see it exactly not like this, in the hands of the people who destroyed his life, his family.

However, walking down the rows of tents now, Brynden sees his men huddled over by campfires alongside soldiers, drinking mead and wine from the same skins. He can still feel the texture of the parchment he held in hand earlier, proclaiming that, apparently, not all family is dead, that not all is lost. And it was handed to him by a man who could well have turned the wheel again, but did not.

And if that means leaving a castle for another? Much to his own surprise, the Blackfish starts to believe this may be worth the price, because, against all odds, he dares to think that the man meaning to collect the debt, while being known as a man without honor, may actually keep his word.

“Something wrong?” Bronn asks, noting that the older man stopped walking.

“No. I just realized something,” Brynden replies.

Bronn grimaces. “And what would that be?”

“That a castle is only just a castle,” the Blackfish says, surprised at the ease with which the words come all of a sudden, when they used to be unthinkable before.

“Well, I would take it if it weren’t already occupied,” the sellsword chuckles softly.

“You are free to tell that to Walder Frey.”

“I think I will pass,” the sellsword huffs.

“And it seems that so do I,” Brynden says before he starts walking, walking ahead.

Because, at last, he can see that direction again, and it leads right past the castle, to a future in the North.

Back inside the tent, Jaime lets out a shaky breath. “That was a close call.”

“I told you that you can reason with the Blackfish,” Brienne says, tapping the flat of her hand against her injured side.

“Only by threatening him with confinement,” Jaime scoffs. “I didn’t believe it until he signed the contract at last.”

“It’s as you say. It worked. That’s all that matters,” Brienne argues.

That is all that counts.

“I still want to murder him, though,” Jaime grumbles, pacing around the tent a bit.

“You won’t,” Brienne huffs.

“But I still _want_ to.”

“We talked about this.”

“I know,” he sighs, shaking his head. “But oh well, we succeeded… and now we are headed North, to whatever is going to await us up there.”

“If what they write is true, future is what awaits us there, for better or worse,” Brienne says with a grimace. While she was certain already by the point of time when their lips met for the first time that trouble was only a stone’s throw away, the threat of the White Walkers being back, those ancient beasts of ice, posed far more danger to their fragile future than did anything Brienne could come up even in her wildest imagination.

“It better be for the better,” Jaime huffs. “It’d only seem fair to me after all this here.”

“On that matter, it seems, we don’t get to choose,” Brienne exhales.

“No, we don’t,” Jaime sighs in agreement.

We only get to choose who we love, he learned, once we make that choice, once we dare to make that leap forward, even if the danger hiding in the snow may very well cut that future rather short.

Jaime turns around to her, then, offering a small smile as he draws closer. “Well… there is one thing we get to choose after all.”

“And what is that?” Brienne asks, looking at him.

“Who to go with,” Jaime tells her, sitting down next Brienne on the bed. “Though truth be told, I’d rather see you off to Tarth. The place seemed rather pleasant from afar when I sailed past it on my way to Dorne.”

“As though that was happening, now that we know what awaits us in the North,” Brienne scoffs.

“It can never harm to suggest it.”

“I _have_ to be there,” Brienne argues.

“ _We_ have to be there,” he corrects her.

“Yes.”

Because they are each other’s concept of a future, so they learned. And thus, every road that leads ahead is theirs to share in.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? Until that letter arrived, I thought that _this_ would be one of the big challenges awaiting me, now as Lord Lannister, but now the whole siege seems rather small, well, except for this here,” Jaime tells her, letting the fingers brush over the back of her hand, if still a little clumsily, though Brienne doesn’t seem to mind.

“We are in the great game now, whether we want to or not,” Brienne says, chewing on her lower lip.

“Just that it’s anything but a game.”

“If it’s true, this is the war to decide it all, no game of thrones, no nothing, just the dead against the living.”

Jaime swallows. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“You think it won’t?” she asks.

“I fear it will.”

“I fear so, too,” Brienne agrees.

“Well, at least we have some good swords on us to put to use,” Jaime adds, nodding at Oathkeeper propped up beside the bed. “After all, you happened to mislay it before you went back into Riverrun and forgot it here. After all, it’s yours.”

_It will always be yours._

Brienne flashes him an uncertain kind of smile. If possible, the blade’s name came to bear even more meaning in the course of these events, because this weapon of Valyrian Steel stands for their oath to one another now, their future, whatever it may be.

“And you better make sure not to lose it again,” Jaime adds.

“I didn’t lose it, I returned it,” she corrects him.

“Then you make sure not to _return_ it again either,” Jaime huffs, before pulling her back against his chest, which surprises the tall woman for a moment, but then she starts to ease against him anyway. While Brienne is not familiar to those gestures, those signs of affection, she tries to ease into the comfort they hold as much and as fast as she can, so not to waste valuable time pondering how that is true.

Because it is – and that is apparently the only thing that counts.

“Am I supposed to promise you that?” Brienne asks.

“You might,” Jaime replies, leaning his temple against the side of her head. “Since you are so intent on keeping your vows till the bitter end, even for the likes of the old goat, it may well be that you are stubborn enough to make that oath remain true even in times such as these. And that would greatly reassure me.”

“Well, just to be sure, you dare to get yourself killed up in the North – then I will vow to make you pay for that,” Brienne tells him, trying to sound light, when the message of that weighs heavy on both of them.

_Please don’t die._

“And a Lannister always pays his debts, after all,” Jaime agrees, smiling softly if sadly.

“Precisely.”

“Or we could try to sneak out, maybe to the Summer Islands until Winter is over?” Jaime suggests, leaning in a little closer, trying to keep as much of her by his side as he can, now with the fear in his bones that those moments will grow increasingly sparse in the North.

“We both know you don’t mean that,” Brienne huffs.

“Maybe I don’t, but that still seems far more pleasant than war in the North. One can dream at least,” Jaime exhales.

“Dreaming can’t harm, no,” Brienne sighs.

_A Dream of Spring._

That seems perhaps incredibly far away now, but then again, so did what is now reality for them, so perhaps even that dream is not unreachable after all.

If the impossible is possible, if bringing the Blackfish to bow to circumstance, then so is winning a war against the living dead, or so Brienne wants to think, daring, if only in the comfort of Jaime’s touch, that the future ahead of them is not as shortly cut as it appears right at this point of time.

And so, perhaps, a dream of an island in blue waters, with lush grass, where boughs swing in the wind, and the air tastes of salt and not of ice is also possible.

The one thing she knows is that the answer as to whether that is more than a dream awaits them in the cold winds of the North, a place without lush grass and the taste of salt on your tongue. Their future will be decided once they are there.

And yet, the one true comfort lies in the simple truth that whatever that future may hold, it will have to hold it for the both of them.

…

“And you are sure, wench?”

“Yes. For the thousandth time, yes,” she answers. “And stop calling me wench.”

“You know that we might just as well prolong it for a few more days,” Jaime argues. “Wench.”

Brienne rolls her eyes at him. “The Maester said I was well enough to ride again, I may remind you.”

“He also said that you were supposed to be taking it easy, something I am sure you won’t do once we set off from Riverrun, I may remind _you_.”

“You sincerely want to tell all men here to go put up the tents again? After the men spent hours striking the camp?” she scoffs.

“Why not? I am their lord, I get to tell them so, apparently. That may be one of the few advantages now on my side,” Jaime chuckles as they continue walking down the paths that once were framed by tents but are now no more than flats of mud and trampled on grass.

“I thought you wanted to be a kind lord,” Brienne scoffs, rolling her still aching shoulder, trying to get used to the weight of her armor.

“Not kind, just a reasonable one,” Jaime snorts, to which she sighs, “And _that_ is clearly not reasonable.”

“It’s reasonable enough for me. If my lady is feeling unwell,” Jaime chimes, rewarding her with the wicked kind of grin she remembers from earlier days, but now seems actually far brighter, as though some lights came on inside his mind, shining on. Brienne turns to him with narrowed eyes and a lowered voice, “Stop it now.”

“What? Bronn’s said it, half the camp is already aware, and the rest just doesn’t care,” he argues, looking around to the men already gathered, some wearing trouts on their shields and armor, some bearing the lion emblem. “And even if there was someone to say anything about it, I couldn’t care any less.”

Jaime found something strangely liberating at the thought that while some men might very well be talking about them after what happened by the drawbridge. Even more so since Bronn likely jokes about it whenever he shares ale with them. Because Jaime, after he didn’t for a long time, dares to think that they are doing the right thing. And of that one thing he is certain, heading towards unknown futures with the woman he had to realize he loved for far longer than he was able to admit to himself is the one thing that will remain right no matter what the future may hold for them.

“The lion does not concern itself with the opinion of the sheep,” he adds.

“That’s not what I mean,” Brienne sighs, letting, her gaze wander to the army ahead, an almost surreal picture for Brienne. While she spent quite some time in the company of soldiers while marching for Renly, she had to realize it is quite something else now, because the man walking beside her is the man commanding them, and apparently, it seems to extend to her ever the more.

She is not the soldier she once was.

“So? Is that what you had in mind when it comes to the siege?” Jaime asks with a smirk, following her gaze to the people ahead of them.

“Some time ago, not really,” Brienne says.

No, that seemed a far too surreal future to even begin to imagine.

There was no sense of future for Brienne, until Jaime brought it back to her.

She thought that the walls of Riverrun would mean their separation, and now, they apparently brought forth their unity.

“And now?” he asks.

“Now… it’s more than I dared to hope for. Whether that is going to prove to be enough? Only the Gods will know the answer. We don’t know what awaits us once we reach the North,” Brienne replies.

“Well, supposedly some Others are to greet us, if the letter is to be believed,” Jaime sighs with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s no joking matter,” the tall woman retorts.

“I rather joke about it. What else is there but to laugh about the matter? The new Lord of Casterly Rock immediately disobeying the Crown and heading to the North, searching for some ancient beasts based on a letter from what is yet another rebel to the Crown?” Jaime scoffs. He is well aware that this is actually going to be treason, particularly in his sister’s eyes. And no matter what he may have told the Blackfish to bring him to bow, Jaime is aware that chances are high that he will be declared a traitor.

_But then again, I am known for that for so many years now. How much worse than the reputation of a Kingslayer can this be?_

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Brienne says faintly, averting her gaze. They have been going back and forth about just those matters many times, without ever truly finding a solution. Because the plain truth is that they would rather know each other safe, but that is impossible in a land that may well hold the White Walkers now.

“What now? You want to pull away at the last second? Brienne of Tarth, I didn’t take you for that craven!” Jaime teases, which naturally has the tall woman scowl at him the way it always does, “Nonsense. I just mean to say that… there is the idea of sending armies North while you make preparations at Casterly Rock.”

“Now, that comes early from you,” Jaime scoffs.

Brienne shakes her head. “Don’t act as though that is completely new to you to think about.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then why not choose it?” Brienne argues. “Bronn can command the armies in your stead.”

“And where would _you_ be going in that alternative, you tell me?”

“North. You could leave it into my care all the same to take the soldiers there,” Brienne suggests, not daring to meet his gaze, well aware of the disapproval that would come her way if she dared to look into his eyes.

“Exactly. So where else would I go if not to where my lady wench is going?” Jaime argues.

“I am just saying…,” she mutters, her voice trailing off.

“I know what you are saying, but you can bloody well forget about that. Just like I have to bloody well forget about that. I told you, I, too, would rather see you off safely to the Rock, but it seems that this is a choice out of both our reach, so quit talking about that at once. I will have none of it, Brienne,” Jaime tells her with more force than perhaps intended, but he won’t let the woman head into danger of that sort alone – ever again.

Whatever danger awaits her, it will be his destiny as well, Jaime knows that one thing for certain. Because Brienne is his concept of a future, it’s just that simple even though it’s all the same so incredibly difficult.

“I tend to look at it like this: You are right, we have to see to it that the people at the Rock prepare for Winter, but that is something that does not require my presence. Someone can do that in my stead. What can’t be done in my stead is to have negotiations with those stubborn Northerners who have certainly little love to spare for a horde of Lannister soldiers trampling around on snow around Winterfell. I made a decision, I made a choice, we both did, and that means that our destiny is now tied to the North, as it seems,” Jaime says. “But to repeat it one more time because you tend to forget in your stubborn head: Wherever you go, I’ll go.”

“Jaime,” Brienne whispers, bowing her head slightly.

While she was aware of his willingness to protect her even before they met again at Riverrun, Brienne is still taken aback at times at the fact that Jaime now insists on their shared future.

It’s both sad and relieving to know that the man she loves means to stay with her, no matter the circumstance, no matter the danger.

“That is final. I almost lost you here, Brienne, the next time you put yourself in such danger, I will be right there with you. You get yourself into trouble all too often,” Jaime goes on.

Because of that one thing Jaime is certain: He’d rather die with sword in hand in the North, fighting White Walkers if only just to know Brienne protected than hide away in the Rock, hoping for Spring to come rather sooner than later, whereas the woman he loves fights the fight that is not hers, but theirs, because their lives, their life, is at stake now, too.

“ _I_ do? What about you?” Brienne scoffs, trying to ease into the easier sorts of conversations that remind her of the times before things weighed heavy on their shoulders and gloom and death didn’t lurk by the tree lines marking the passage North.

“You landed yourself in a bear pit,” Jaime argues, joining along. “With no more than a tourney sword.”

“You jumped into it. Without a weapon – and just one hand.”

“You took an arrow for me.”

_Another scar she will bear because of me, for me…_

“You shouted out so that Locke cut off your hand.”

Jaime starts laughing at that, hearing a familiar song in his ears. “… I suppose we both end up in trouble all the time. Ever the more a reason to stick together especially these days.”

“… I suppose so,” Brienne sighs.

Apparently, it is more than their mutual reassurance that they mean to stay together. As it seems, destiny long since bound them in ways past their own comprehension.

“It’s so nice when you agree with me for once,” he chimes, to which he snorts, “You shouldn’t get used to it.”

“On another note, my dear lady, your proposal entails that you’d be in command of my armies. Is it that you fancy that position?” Jaime asks with a smirk tugging at his lips.

“What now?” Brienne frowns.

“Well, if you want to be in command of my armies, we ought to think about some other businesses, in terms of _alliances_ , you see,” Jaime tells her. “To make my armies yours.”

The grin he rewards her with is all too telling for Brienne, bringing heat to rise within her almost instantly.

“Oh, stop it now,” she calls out, knocking against his chest plate. “You are making yourself ridiculous.”

“I _do_ mean that,” Jaime argues almost forcefully this time, which brings Brienne to halt, her big blue eyes wide in shock.

“But…,” she mutters helplessly.

“Not for now, unless you wished for it to happen on this muddy field. I understand that the times are a mess and that there is more urgent business at the moment, but we are now free to choose that alternative, too, against the odds of marching North to fight the Others, if they are there indeed. There is no longer that vow preventing me from it. By royal decree, I am no longer Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Jaime says, taking her left hand into his, giving it a light squeeze. “Needless to mention that you are my lady this way or another… but it can wait. I suppose you will take some time to… think that through.”

“… Possibly,” Brienne says, her lips barely moving apart.

_Did he sincerely just… he did, didn’t he?_

It’s truly curious what the future can bring forth in all this death, war, and darkness. Though perhaps that is what makes future shine ever the brighter, its being cloaked into darkness can make a light shine more than it will in times of no struggle, no pain.

“As I said, all in due time. For now… I suppose there is but one goal, the North. Not that I am looking particularly forward to being around that place. Last time I was there, I almost got a chill on the bladder,” Jaime snorts.

“There are things you don’t have to share,” she scoffs as their hands slowly let go of one another and they begin to walk again.

“What? I thought we are now sharing everything with each other,” Jaime chuckles.

“I don’t want to know these things.”

“The way to Winterfell is long, and we still have a lot of catching up to do, my lady,” Jaime argues. “Which means that we will share much more than we did until now.”

At last, they reach the army, the men readily making opening a path for them. While Jaime is already rather used to that, Brienne can do nothing much but stare. Before, she was the one making space for others, but now it seems that it’s the other way around.

Future is a strange thing, and so fascinatingly unexpected.

The two pass down the row at the end of which they can already spot Bronn and Podrick waiting for them. Brienne’s eyes linger on the Blackfish, who took position in the second row of commanders. She nods at him and to her surprise, he bows back in turn, if only slightly, a gesture that most others wouldn’t catch. However, that does not in the least go unnoticed by Brienne, well aware what it means to the man so much like Jaime and her, even though it seems hard to imagine, bearing in mind that they stood on opposite sides of the castle now in their backs.

Though she is glad to see that the glistening of defeat seems to have faded from his eyes as the Blackfish lets his gaze wander North, likely thinking of a girl with auburn hair whose apparent life may have sparked his will to keep fighting for the living rather than dead stone.

“Last chance,” Jaime says, pulling Brienne out of her thoughts, back to the man walking beside her.

“We are leaving today,” Brienne hisses. “That is decided, so stop it now, once and for all.”

For emphasis, she grabs Oathkeeper by the hilt a little tighter, the familiar weight of the blade against her waist almost soothing to her.

“M’lady!” Pod calls out, hastily approaching with her horse in tow. “Here, let me help you.”

He bends down to help Brienne into the saddle.

“Thank you, Pod,” she says, giving the lad’s shoulder one light squeeze before mounting the horse. While she would never say out loud, it still gives her quite some trouble, but Brienne knows better than to let Jaime catch any of this, or else he may well follow through with having a tent put back up for her to get some more rest.

Because, apparently, he is that kind of a fool.

And she is the kind of a fool falling for him not despite that but because of that, too.

Brienne is surprised when she turns her head to find Jaime standing right beside her.

“I will handle the rest, thank you, Pod,” Jaime says, to which Brienne only rolls her eyes. He takes a hold of the stirrup so she can slip her boot into it, willfully holding on to her ankle longer than is necessary, taking his time and a bit of delight in the squirming Brienne is doing as a result.

The way North may be long, but that alone may make it worthwhile. Because they have to fetch those small moments, have to hold them tight and dear, for when cold winds are blowing, leaving them with nothing but themselves and warmer memories to hold on to.

“I can well do that on my own,” she scoffs.

“I am aware,” Jaime chuckles. Brienne shakes her head, letting her gaze wander up to a gray sky with a tint of blue in it, fighting against the heat meaning to creep up her cheeks.

“Hey, once you two lovebirds are done ogling at one another like youths that can’t keep it in their breeches, it’d be very much appreciated if his Grace of the Rock or whatever the fook your title is now were to finally swing himself into the saddle to ride ahead. Or else we’ll sink into the mud here!” Bronn calls out.

“You are always so subtle!” Jaime retorts, laughing.

“As are you!”

Jaime sighs, turning back around to Brienne once more. “It seems that we are to be on our way.”

“To the North.”

“To the North.”

To unknown futures of which there is just one thing certain, as it seems: That they will be there together.

Jaime gives Brienne’s fingers one last squeeze before pulling away from the horse to saddle up as well. He lifts his right arm high in the air, the meager sunlight catching in his golden hand like a small beacon, and so the army starts marching, moving forward, moving North, to unknown futures, unknown lands, unknown monsters and dangers.

Because if the news are true, life dangles on an icy thread in the North, not just for them but everyone.

And they cannot afford to lose.

Because there are futures to grow, futures to live.

And so, they keep marching, moving forward, moving ahead, not daring to look back, leaving all behind, in a mossy, lithic castle that is now the echo of a House torn apart and yet a House that, at last, bowed to the future waiting outside its walls.

And as they march, a new song is carrying over lush grass and boughs swinging in the wind.

_He rode through the streets of the city_   
_Down from his hill on high_   
_Over winds and the steps and the cobbles,_   
_He rode to a woman’s sigh._

_For she was his secret treasure,_   
_She was his shame and bliss._   
_And a chain and a keep are nothing,_   
_Compared to a woman’s kiss._

_For hands of gold are always cold,_   
_But a woman’s hands are warm!_   
_For hands of gold are always cold,_   
_But a woman’s hands are warm!_


End file.
